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COPYRIGHT DEPOSHY 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



The Lockerbie Book 

Containing Poems Not in Dialect 

By 

James Whitcomb Riley 



Collected and Arranged by 

Hewitt Hanson Howland 



INDIANAPOLIS 

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



I 



. 








It 



M> 



V 



Copyright 1911, James Whitcomb Riley 
©CI. A 2 95 94 5 



TO 
JUDGE E. B. MARTINDALE 



■ 
; j 

INTRODUCTION 



It is something of a literary presumption to introduce to 
any one that can read, a volume that bears on its title page 
the name of James Whitcomb Riley. And yet because of its 
departure from the naturally expected, this collection seems 
to make an introduction not only pertinent but courteous 
as well 

When we were all some years younger than we are now, 
"Benj. F. Johnson of Boone" dipped his rosy muse in the 
melodious waters of The Old Swimmin'-Hole and brought 
her forth wearing on her shining forehead the homely but 
imperishable sign of dialect. 

The century that was then old has gone to its final reck- 
oning, and ten full years have been recorded against its 
young successor. During this time it has been given to 
"Benj. F. Johnson" to write much. In the fourteen volumes 
that now represent his collected verse, almost every poetic 
form finds a place, and normal English, in distinction from 
dialect, holds an equal authority. Yet if you say "Riley" 
to the man in the street he will reply: "When the frost is 
on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock." The poet, 1 
am sure, has no grievance with this answer; nor is (here 
quarrel anywhere with the fixed association of Riley's name 



with his homelier form of verse. Such an alliance is as 
worthy as it is inevitable. His destinies are garlanded with 
old fashioned roses and time will judge him and reward 
him accordingly. 

As a consequence, however, his normal English verse is 
not, perhaps, fully recognized either for its extent or for its 
quality. And so in this belief, as well as in answer to an 
ever-continuing demand, these poems have been brought to- 
gether and the volume comprising them named for the little 
street in which their author has long lived and worked. 

For permission to reprint certain poems here included 
grateful acknowledgment is made to Messrs. Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons and the Century Company, of New York. 

H. H. H. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



THE 
LOCKERBIE BOOK 

AFTERWHILES 

i Lockerbie Street 

CUCH a dear little street it is, nestled away 

^ From the noise of the city and heat of the day, 

In cool shady coverts of whispering trees, 

With their leaves lifted up to shake hands with the breeze 

Which in all its wide wanderings never may meet 

With a resting-place fairer than Lockerbie street ! 

There is such a relief, from the clangor and din 

Of the heart of the town, to go loitering in 

Through the dim, narrow walks, with the sheltering shade 

Of the trees waving over the long promenade, 

And littering lightly the ways of our feet 

With the gold of the sunshine of Lockerbie street 

And the nights that come down the dark pathways of dusk, 
With the stars in their tresses, and odors of musk 
In their moon-woven raiments, bespangled with dews, 
And looped up with lilies for lovers to use 
In the songs that they sing to the tinkle and beat 
Of their sweet serenadings through Lockerbie street. 

I 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O my Lockerbie street! You are fair to be seen — 
Be it noon of the day, or the rare and serene 
Afternoon of the night — -you are one to my heart, 
And I love you above all the phrases of art,. 
For no language could frame and no lips could repeat 
My rhyme-haunted raptures of Lockerbie street. 



2 A Discouraging Model 

JUST the airiest, fairiest slip of a thing, 
With a Gainsborough hat, like a butterfly's wing, 
Tilted up at one side with the jauntiest air, 
And a knot of red roses sown in under there 
Where the shadows are lost in her hair. 

Then a cameo face, carven in on a ground 
Of that shadowy hair where the roses are wound; 
And the gleam of a smile, O as fair and as faint 
And as sweet as the masters of old used to paint 
Round the lips of their favorite saint! 

And that lace at her throat — and the fluttering hands 
Snowing there, with a grace that no art understands, 
The flakes of their touches — first fluttering at 
The bow — then the roses — the hair — and then that 
Little tilt of the Gainsborough hat. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Ah, what artist on earth with a model like this, 
Holding not on his palette the tint of a kiss, 
Nor a pigment to hint of the hue of her hair 
Nor the gold of her smile — O what artist could dare 
To expect a result half so fair? 



i 



Away 

CANNOT say, and I will not say 
That he is dead. — He is just away! 



With a cheery smile, and a wave of the hand, 
He has wandered into an unknown land, 

And left us dreaming how very fair 
It needs must be, since he lingers there. 

And you — O you, who the wildest yearn 
For the old-time step and the glad return, — 

Think of him faring on, as dear 

In the love of There as the love of Here; 

And loyal still, as he gave the blows 

Of his warrior-strength to his country's foes- 

Mild and gentle, as he was brave, — 
When the sweetest love of his life he gave 

To simple things : — Where the violets grew 
Blue as the eyes they were likened to, 
3 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The touches of his hands have strayed 
As reverently as his lips have prayed : 

When the little brown thrush that harshly chirred 
Was dear to him as the mocking-bird; 

And he pitied as much as a man in pain 
A writhing honey-bee wet with rain.— 

Think of him still as the same, I say : 
He is not dead — he is just away! 



T 



A Life-Lesson 

HERE! little girl; don't cry! 

They have broken your doll, I know ; 
And your tea-set blue, 
And your play-house, too, 
Are things of the long ago; 

But childish troubles will soon pass by.- 
There! little girl; don't cry! 



There! little girl; don't cry! 

They have broken your slate, I know; 
And the glad, wild ways 
Of your school-girl days 
Are things of the long ago; 
But life and love will soon come by. — 
There! little girl; don't cry! 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 

They have broken your heart, I know ; 
And the rainbow gleams 
Of your youthful dreams 
Are things of the long ago; 
But Heaven holds all for which you sigh- 
There! little girl; don't cry! 



5 Herr Weiser 

T T ERR WEISER! — Threescore-years-and-ten,- 

-■■-■- A hale white rose of his countrymen, 

Transplanted here in the Hoosier loam, 

And blossomy as his German home — 

As blossomy and as pure and sweet 

As the cool green glen of his calm retreat, 

Far withdrawn from the noisy town 

Where trade goes clamoring up and down, 

Whose fret and fever, and stress and strife, 

May not trouble his tranquil life ! 

Breath of rest, what a balmy gust ! — 
Quit of the city's heat and dust, 
Jostling down by the winding road, 
Through the orchard ways of his quaint abode. — 
Tether the horse, as we onward fare 
Under the pear-trees trailing there, 
And thumping the wooden bridge at night 
With lumps of ripeness and lush delight, 
Till the stream, as it maunders on till dawn, 
Is powdered and pelted and smiled upon. 
5 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Herr Weiser, with his wholesome face, 

And the gentle blue of his eyes, and grace 

Of unassuming honesty, 

Be there to welcome you and me ! 

And what though the toil of the farm be stopped 

And the tireless plans of the place be dropped, 

While the prayerful master's knees are set 

In beds of pansy and mignonette 

And lily and aster and columbine, 

Offered in love, as yours and mine? — 

What, but a blessing of kindly thought, 

Sweet as the breath of forget-me-not ! — 

What, but a spirit of lustrous love 

White as the aster he bends above! — 

What, but an odorous memory 

Of the dear old man, made known to me 

In days demanding a help like his, — 

As sweet as the life of the lily is — 

As sweet as the soul of a babe, bloom-wise 

Born of a lily in paradise. 



6 Out to Old Aunt Mary's 

\ li WASN'T it pleasant, O brother mine, 

* * In those old days of the lost sunshine 
Of youth — when the Saturday's chores were through, 
And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too, 
And we went visiting, "me and you," 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?— 
6 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

"Me and you" — And the morning fair, 
With the dewdrops twinkling everywhere; 
The scent of the cherry-blossoms blown 
After us, in the roadway lone, 
Our capering shadows onward thrown — 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's ! 

It all comes back so clear to-day ! 
Though I am as bald as you are gray, — 
Out by the barn-lot and down the lane 
We patter along in the dust again, 
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain, 
. Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

The few last houses of the town; 
Then on, up the high creek-bluffs and down ; 
Past the squat tollgate, with its well-sweep pole; 
The bridge, and "The old 'Babtizin'-hole,' " 
Loitering, awed, o'er pool and shoal, 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

We cross the pasture, and through the wood, 
Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood, 
Where the hammering "red-heads" hopped awry, 
And the buzzard "raised" in the "clearing"-sky 
And lolled and circled, as we went by 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

Or, stayed by the glint of the redbird's wings, 
Or the glitter of song that the bluebird sings, 
All hushed we feign to strike strange trails, 
As the "big braves" do in the Indian talcs. 
Till again our real quest la^s and fails — 
Out to old Aunt Mary's. — 
7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the woodland echoes with yells of mirth 
That make old war-whoops of minor worth! 
Where such heroes of war as we? — 
With bows and arrows of fantasy, 
Chasing each other from tree to tree 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's ! 

And then in the dust of the road again; 
And the teams we met, and the countrymen ; 
And the long highway, with sunshine spread 
As thick as butter on country bread, 
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.— 

For only, now, at the road's next bend 
To the right we could make out the gable-end 
Of the fine old Huston homestead — not 
Half a mile f fom the sacred spot 
Where dwelt our Saint in her simple cot — 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

Why, I see her now in the open door 
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er 
The clapboard roof ! — And her face — ah, me ! 
Wasn't it good for a boy to see — 
And wasn't it good, for a boy to be 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?— 

The jelly — the jam and the marmalade, 
And the cherry- and quince-"preserves" she made ! 
And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear, 
With cinnamon in 'em, and all things rare! — 
And the more we ate was the more to spare, 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's! 
8 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Ah ! was there, ever, so kind a face 
And gentle as hers, or such a grace 
Of welcoming, as she cut the cake 
Or the juicy pies that she joyed to make 
Just for the visiting children's sake — 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

The honey, too, in its amber comb 
One only finds in an old farm-home; 
And the coffee, fragrant and sweet, and ho ! 
So hot that we gloried to drink it so, 
With spangles of tears in our eyes, you know — 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

And the romps we took, in our glad unrest ! — 
Was it the lawn that we loved the best, 
With its swooping swing in the locust trees, 
Or was it the grove, with its leafy breeze, 
Or the dim hay-mow, with its fragrandes — 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

Far fields, bottom-lands, creek-banks — all, 
We ranged at will. — Where the waterfall 
Laughed all day as it slowly poured 
Over the dam by the old mill-ford, 

While the tail-race writhed, and. the mill-wheel roared- 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

But home, with Aunty in nearer call, 
That was the best place, after all ! — 
The talks on the back-porch, in the low 
Slanting sun and the evening glow. 
With the voice of counsel that touched us so. 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And then, in the garden — near the side 
Where the bee-hives were and the path was wide, — 
The apple-house — like a fairy cell — 
With the little square door we knew so well, 
And the wealth inside but our tongues could tell- 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

And the old spring-house, in the cool green gloom 
Of the willow trees,— and the cooler room 
Where the swinging shelves and the crocks were kept, 
Where the cream in a golden languor slept, 
While the waters gurgled and laughed and wept— 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 

And as many a time have you and I— 
Barefoot boys in the days gone by- 
Knelt, and in tremulous ecstasies 
Dipped our lips into sweets like these, — 
Memory now is on her knees 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's.— 



For, O my brother, so far away, 
This is to tell you — she waits to-day 
To welcome us :- — Aunt Mary fell 
Asleep this morning, whispering, "Tell 






The boys to come" ... And all is well 
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. 



10 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
/ When June is Here 

\ \ 7" HEN June is here — what art have we to sing 
* * The whiteness of the lilies 'midst the green 

Of noon-tranced lawns? or flash of roses seen 
Like redbirds' wings ? or earliest ripening 
Prince-Harvest apples, where the cloyed bees cling 

Round winey juices oozing down between 

The peckings of the robin, while we lean 
In under-grasses, lost in marvelling; 

Or the cool term of morning, and the stir 
Of odorous breaths from wood and meadow walks ; 

The Bob-white's liquid yodel, and the whir 
Of sudden flight; and, where the milkmaid talks 
Across the bars, on tilted barley-stalks 

The dewdrops' glint in webs of gossamer. 

8 A Scrawl 

T WANT to sing something — but this is all— 
-^ I try and I try, but the rhymes are dull 
As though they were damp, and the echoes fall 
Limp and unlovable. 

Words will not say what I yearn to say — 

They will not walk as I want them to, 
But they stumble and fall in the path of the way 
Of my telling my love for you. 

Simply take what the scrawl is worth — 

Knowing I love you as sun the sod 
On the ripening side of the great round earth 
That swings in the smile of God. 

IT 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
To Santa Clans 

TV /T OST tangible of all the gods that be, 
■LV *■ O Santa Claus — our own since Infancy! — 
As first we scampered to thee — now, as then, 
Take us as children to thy heart again. 

Be wholly good to us, just as of old: 
As a pleased father, let thine arms infold 
Us, homed within the haven of thy love, 
And all the cheer and wholesomeness thereof. 

Thou lone reality, when O so long 
Life's unrealities have wrought us wrong: 
Ambition hath allured us,— fame likewise, 
And all that promised honor in men's eyes. 

Throughout the world's evasions, wiles, and shifts, 
Thou only bidest stable as thy gifts : — 
A grateful king re-ruleth from thy lap, 
Crowned with a little tinselled soldier-cap : 

A mighty general — a nation's pride — 
Thou givest again a rocking-horse to ride, 
And wildly glad he groweth as the grim 
Old jurist with the drum thou givest him : 

The sculptor's chisel, at thy mirth's command, 

Is as a whistle in his boyish hand; 

The painter's model fadeth utterly, 

And there thou standest, — and he painteth thee : — 

Most like a winter pippin, sound and fine 
And tingling-red that ripe old face of thine, 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Set in thy frosty beard of cheek and chin 

As midst the snows the thaws of spring set in. 

Ho ! Santa Claus — our own since Infancy — 
Most tangible of all the gods that be ! — 
As first we scampered to thee — now, as then, 
Take us as children to thy heart again. 



io A Bride 

l> (~\ I AM weary !" she sighed, as her billowy 

^-^ Hair she unloosed in a torrent of gold 
That rippled and fell o'er a figure as willowy, 

Graceful and fair as a goddess of old : 
Over her jewels she flung herself drearily, 

Crumpled the laces that snowed on her breast, 
Crushed with her fingers the lily that wearily 
Clung in her hair like a dove in its nest. 
— And naught but her shadowy form in the mirror 
To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her ! 

"Weary?" — of what? Could we fathom the mystery? — 

Lift up the lashes weighed down by her tears 
And wash with their dews one white face from her history, 

Set like a gem in the red rust of years? 
Nothing will rest her — unless he who died of her 

Strayed from his grave, and, in place of the groom, 
Tipping her face, kneeling there by the side of her, 
Drained the old kiss to the dregs of his doom. 

— And naught but that shadowy form in the mirror 
To kneel in dumb agony down and weep near her ! 
13 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
II Dusk 

np^lE frightened herds of clouds across the sky 
-** Trample the sunshine down, and chase the day 

Into the dusky forest-lands of gray 
And sombre twilight. Far, and faint, and high, 
The wild goose trails his harrow, with a cry 

Sad as the wail of some poor castaway 

Who sees a vessel drifting far astray 
Of his last hope, and lays him down to die. 
The children, riotous from school, grow bold 

And quarrel with the wind whose angry gust 
Plucks off the summer-hat, and flaps the fold 

Of many a crimson cloak, and twirls the dust 
In spiral shapes grotesque, and dims the gold 

Of gleaming tresses with the blur of rust. 



12 Das Krist Kindel 

I HAD fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles in de- 
light 
Snapped their saucy little fingers at the chill December 

night : 
And in dressing-gown and slippers, I had tilted back "my 

throne" — 
The old split-bottomed rocker — and was musing all alone. 

I could hear the hungry Winter prowling round the outer 

door, 
And the tread of muffled footsteps on the white piazza 

floor; 

14 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But the sounds came to me only as the murmur of a 

stream 
That mingled with the current of a lazy-flowing dream. 

Like a fragrant incense rising, curled the smoke of my 

cigar, 
With the lamplight gleaming through it like a mist-enfolded 

star ; — 
And as I gazed, the vapor like a curtain rolled away, 
With a sound of bells that tinkled, and the clatter of a 

sleigh. 

And in a vision, painted like a picture in the air, 
I saw the elfish figure of a man with frosty hair — 
A quaint old man that chuckled with a laugh as he ap- 
peared, 
And with ruddy cheeks like embers in the ashes of his 
beard. 

He poised himself grotesquely, in an attitude of mirth, 
On a damask-covered hassock that was sitting on the 

hearth ; 
And at a magic signal of his stubby little thumb, 
I saw the fireplace changing to a bright proscenium. 

And looking there, I marvelled as I saw a mimic stage 
Alive with little actors of a very tender age ; 
And some so very tiny that they tottered as they walked, 
And lisped and purled and gurgled like the brooklets, when 
they talked. 



15 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And their faces were like lilies, and their eyes like purest 

dew, 
And their tresses like the shadows that the shine is woven 

through ; 
And they each had little burdens, and a little tale to tell 
Of fairy lore, and giants, and delights delectable. 

And they mixed and intermingled, weaving melody with 

joy, 
Till the magic circle clustered round a blooming baby-boy ; 
And they threw aside their treasures in an ecstasy of glee, 
And bent, with dazzled faces and with parted lips, to see. 

'Twas a wondrous little fellow, with a dainty double-chin, 
And chubby cheeks, and dimples for the smiles to blossom 

in;.. 
And he looked as ripe and rosy, on his bed of straw and 

reeds, 
As a mellow little pippin that had tumbled in the weeds. 

And I saw the happy mother, and a group surrounding her 
That knelt with costly presents of frankincense and myrrh ; 
And I thrilled with awe and wonder, as a murmur on the 

air 
Came drifting o'er the hearing in a melody of prayer: — 

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, 
And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, — 
We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee 
And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee. 



16 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Thy messenger has spoken, and our doubts have fled and 

gone 
As the dark and spectral shadows of the night before the 

dawn; 
And, in the kindly shelter of the light around us drawn, 
We zvould nestle down forever in the breast we lean upon. 

You have given us a shepherd — You have given us a guide, 
And the light of Heaven grew dimmer when You sent him 

from Your side, — 
But he comes to lead Thy children where the gates will 

open wide 
To welcome his returning when his works are glorified. 

By the splendor in the heavens, and the hush upon the sea, 
And the majesty of silence reigning over Galilee, — 
We feel Thy kingly presence, and we humbly bow the knee 
And lift our hearts and voices in gratefulness to Thee. 

Then the vision, slowly failing, with the words of the re- 
frain, 

Fell swooning in the moonlight through the frosty window- 
pane ; 

And I heard the clock proclaiming, like an eager sentinel 

Who brings the world good tidings, — "It is Christmas — 
all is well !" 



17 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

13 June 

f~\ QUEENLY month of indolent repose! 

^-^ I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, 

As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom 
I nestle like a drowsy child and doze 
The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws 
The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom 
And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom 
Before thy listless feet. The lily blows 
A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade ; 

And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, 
Thy harvest-armies gather on parade ; 

While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, 
A voice calls out of alien lands of shade : — 
All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year ! 

14 The South Wind and the Sun 

r\ THE South Wind and the Sun ! 
^S ) How each loved the other one — 
Full of fancy— full of folly — 

Full of jollity and fun! 

How they romped and ran about, 

Like two boys when school is out, 
With glowing face, and lisping lip, 

Low laugh, and lifted shout! 

And the South Wind — he was dressed 
With a ribbon round his breast 
That floated, flapped and fluttered 
In a riotous unrest, 
18 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And a drapery of mist 
From the shoulder and the wrist 
Flowing backward with the motion 
Of the waving hand he kissed. 

And the Sun had on a crown 

Wrought of gilded thistle-down, 
And a scarf of velvet vapor, 

And a ravelled-rainbow gown; 

And his tinsel-tangled hair, 

Tossed and lost upon the air, 
Was glossier and flossier 

Than any anywhere. 

And the South Wind's eyes were two 

Little dancing drops of dew, 
As he puffed his cheeks, and pursed his lips, 

And blew and blew and blew ! 

And the Sun's— like diamond-stone, 

Brighter yet than ever known, 
As he knit his brows and held his breath, 

And shone and shone and shone ! 

And this pair of merry fays 

Wandered through the summer days ; 
Arm-in-arm they went together 

Over heights of morning haze — 

Over slanting slopes of lawn 

They went on and on and on, 
Where the daisies looked like star-tracks 

Trailing up and down the dawn. 



•9 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And where'er they found the top 

Of a wheat-stalk droop and lop 
They chucked it underneath the chin 

And praised the lavish crop, 

Till it lifted with the pride 

Of the heads it grew beside, 
And then the South Wind and the Sun 

Went onward satisfied. 

Over meadow-lands they tripped, 

Where the dandelions dipped 
In crimson foam of clover-bloom, 

And dripped and dripped and dripped ; 

And they clinched the bumble-stings, 

Gauming honey on their wings, 
And bundling them in lily-bells, 

With maudlin murmurings. 

And the humming-bird, that hung 

Like a jewel up among 
The tilted honeysuckle-horns, 

They mesmerized, and swung 

In the palpitating air, 

Drowsed with odors strange and rare, 
And, with whispered laughter, slipped away, 

And left him hanging there. 

And they braided blades of grass 
Where the truant had to pass; 
And they wriggled through the rushes 
And the reeds of the morass, 



20 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Where they danced, in rapture sweet, 
O'er the leaves that laid a street 
Of undulant mosaic for 
The touches of their feet. 

By the brook with mossy brink 
Where the cattle came to drink, 

They trilled and piped and whistled 
With the thrush and bobolink, 
Till the kine, in listless pause, 
Switched their tails in mute applause, 

With lifted heads, and dreamy eyes, 
And bubble-dripping jaws. 

And where the melons grew, 
Streaked with yellow, green and blue, 

These jolly sprites went wandering 
Through spangled paths of dew ; 
And the melons, here and there, 
They made love to, everywhere, 

Turning their pink souls to crimson 
With caresses fond and fair. 

Over orchard walls they went, 

Where the fruited boughs were bent 
Till they brushed the sward beneath them 

Where the shine and shadow blent ; 

And the great green pear they shook 

Till the sallow hue forsook 
Its features, and the gleam of gold 

Laughed out in every look. 



21 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And they stroked the downy cheek 
Of the peach, and smoothed it sleek, 

And flushed it into splendor; 
And, with many an elfish freak, 
Gave the russet's rust a wipe — 
Prankt the rambo with a stripe, 

And the wine-sap blushed its reddest 
As they spanked the pippins ripe. 

Through the woven ambuscade 
That the twining vines had made, 

They found the grapes, in clusters, 
Drinking up the shine and shade— 
Plumpt, like tiny skins of wine, 
With a vintage so divine 

That the tongue of fancy tingled 
With the tang of muscadine. 

And the golden-banded bees, 
Dfoning o'er the flowery leas, 

They bridled, reined, and rode away 
Across the fragrant breeze, 
Till in hollow oak and elm 
They had groomed and stabled them 

In waxen stalls that oozed with dews 
Of rose and lily-stem. 

Where the dusty highway leads, 
High above the wayside weeds 
They sowed the air with butterflies 
Like blooming flower-seeds, 



22 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Till the dull grasshopper sprung 
Half a man's height up, and hung 
Tranced in the heat, with whirring wings, 
And sung and sung and sung ! 

And they loitered, hand in hand, 
Where the snipe along the sand 

Of the river ran to meet them 
As the ripple meets the land, 
Till the dragon-fly, in light 
Gauzy armor, burnished bright, 

Came tilting down the waters 
In a wild, bewildered flight. 

And they heard the killdee's call, 

And afar, the waterfall, 
But the rustle of a falling leaf 

They heard above it all; 

And the trailing willow crept 

Deeper in the tide that swept 
The leafy shallop to the shore, 

And wept and wept and wept ! 

And the fairy vessel veered 

From its moorings — tacked and steered 

For the centre of the current — 
Sailed away and disappeared : 
And the burthen that it bore 
From the long-enchanted shore — 

"Alas! the South Wind and the Sun!" 
I murmur evermore. 



23 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

For the South Wind and the Sun, 
Each so loves the other one, 

For all his jolly folly 
And frivolity and fun, 
That our love for them they weigh 
As their fickle fancies may, 

And when at last we love them most, 
They laugh and sail away. 



15 The Ripest Peach 

r I ^HE ripest peach is highest on the tree — 

-*- And so her love, beyond the reach of me, 
Is dearest in my sight. Sweet breezes, bow 
Her heart down to me where I worship now! 

She looms aloft where every eye may see 
The ripest peach is highest on the tree. 
Such fruitage as her love I know, alas ! 
I may not reach here from the orchard grass. 

I drink the sunshine showered past her lips 
As roses drain the dewdrop as it drips. 
The ripest peach is highest on the tree, 
And so mine eyes gaze upward eagerly. 

Why — why do I not turn away in wrath 
And pluck some heart here hanging in my path ? — 
Love's lower boughs bend with them — but, ah me! 
The ripest peach is highest on the tree ! 
24 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

16 Time 

i 

r I ^HE ticking — ticking — ticking of the clock! — 
-*■ That vexed me so last night ! — "For though Time 
•keeps 

Such drowsy watch," I moaned, "he never sleeps, 
But only nods above the world to mock 
Its restless occupant, then rudely rock 

It as the cradle of a babe that weeps !" 

I seemed to see the seconds piled in heaps 
Like sand about me ; and at every shock 

O' the bell, the piled sands were swirled away 
As by a desert-storm that swept the earth 

Stark as a granary floor, whereon the gray 
And mist-bedrizzled moon amidst the dearth 

Came crawling, like a sickly child, to lay 

Its pale face next mine own and weep for day. 

ii 
Wait for the morning ! Ah ! we wait indeed 

For daylight, we who toss about through stress 

Of vacant-armed desires and emptiness 
Of all the warm, warm touches that we need, 
And the warm kisses upon which we feed 

Our famished lips in fancy ! May God bless 

The starved lips of us with but one caress 
Warm as the yearning blood our poor hearts bleed ! 
. . . A wild prayer ! — bite thy pillow, praying so — 

Toss this side, and whirl that, and moan for dawn ; 
Let the clock's seconds dribble out their woe, 
And Time be drained of sorrow ! Long agfa 

We heard the crowing cock, with answer drawn 

As hoarsely sad at throat as sobs. . . Pray on ! 
25 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

1/ Afterwhiles 

\\ THERE are they— the Afterwhiles- 
* * Luring us the lengthening miles 
Of our lives? Where is the dawn 
With the dew across the lawn 
Stroked with eager feet the far 
Way the hills and valleys are? 
Where the sun that smites the frown 
Of the eastward-gazer down? 
Where the rifted wreaths of mist 
O'er us, tinged with amethyst, 
Round the mountain's steep defiles? 
Where are all the afterwhiles? 

Afterwhile — and we will go 
Thither, yon, and to and fro — 
From the stifling city streets 
To the country's cool retreats — 
From the riot to the rest 
Where hearts beat the placidest: 
Afterwhile, and we will fall 
Under breezy trees, and loll 
In the shade, with thirsty sight 
Drinking deep the blue delight 
Of the skies that will beguile 
Us as children — afterwhile. 

Afterwhile — and one intends 
To be gentler to his friends, — 
To walk with them, in the hush 
Of still evenings, o'er the plush 
Of home-leading fields, and stand 
26 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Long at parting, hand in hand : 
One, in time, will joy to take 
New resolves for some one's sake, 
And wear then the look that lies 
Clear and pure in other eyes — 
He will soothe and reconcile 
His own conscience — afterwhile. 

Afterwhile — we have in view 
A far scene to journey to, — 
Where the old home is, and where 
The old mother waits us there, 
Peering, as the time grows late, 
Down the old path to the gate. — 
How we'll click the latch that locks 
In the pinks and hollyhocks, 
And leap up the path once more 
Where she waits us at the door ! — 
How we'll greet the dear old smile, 
And the warm tears — afterwhile ! 

Ah, the endless af terwhiles ! — 
Leagues on leagues, and miles on miles, 
In the distance far withdrawn, 
Stretching on, and on, and on, 
Till the fancy is footsore 
And faints in the dust before 
The last milestone's granite face, 
Hacked with : Here Beginneth Space. 
O far glimmering worlds and wings, 
Mystic smiles and beckonings, 
l.c;\c\ us through the shadowy aisles, 
Out into the afterwhiles. 
27 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
18 Silence 

r I " HOUSANDS of thousands of hushed years ago, 
-*■ Out on the edge of Chaos, all alone 

I stood on peaks of vapor, high upthrown 
Above a sea that knew nor ebb nor flow, 
Nor any motion won of winds that blow, 

Nor any sound of watery wail or rnoan, 

Nor lisp of wave, nor wandering undertone 
Of any tide lost in the night below. 
So still it was, I mind me, as I laid 

My thirsty ear against mine own faint sigh 
To drink of that, I sipped it, half afraid 

'Twas but the ghost of a dead voice spilled by 
The one starved star that tottered through the shade 

And came tiptoeing toward me down the sky. 



ip Grant 

AT REST — AUGUST 8, 1885 

Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and endlong in a 
wide forest, and held no path but as wild adventure 
led him. . . . And he returned and came again to 
his horse, and took off his saddle and his bridle, 
and let him pasture; and unlaced his helm-, and 
ungirdled his sword, and laid him down to sleep 
upon his shield before the cross. — Age of Chivalry. 

TIT" HAT shall we say of the soldier, Grant, 
* * His sword put by and his great soul free? 

How shall we cheer him now or chant 
His requiem beflttingly? 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The fields of his conquest now are seen 
Ranged no more with his armed men — 

But the rank and file of the gold and green 
Of the waving grain is there again. 

Though his valiant life is a nation's pride, 

And his death heroic and half divine, 
And our grief as great as the world is wide, 

There breaks in speech but a single line : — 
We loved him living, revere him dead! — 

A silence then on our lips is laid : 
We can say no thing that has not been said, 

Nor pray one prayer that has not been prayed. 

But a spirit within us speaks : and lo, 

We lean and listen to wondrous words 
That have a sound as of winds that blow, 

And the voice of waters and low of herds ; 
And we hear, as the song flows on serene, 

The neigh of horses, and then the beat 
Of hooves that skurry o'er pastures green, 

And the patter and pad of a boy's bare feet. 

A brave lad, wearing a manly brow, 

Knit as with problems of grave dispute, 
And a face, like the bloom of the orchard bough, 

Pink and pallid, but resolute ; 
And flushed it grows as the clover-bloom, 

And fresh it gleams as the morning dew, 
As he reins his steed where the quick quails boom 

Up from the grasses he races through. 



29 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And ho ! as he rides what dreams are his ? 

And what have the breezes to suggest? — 
Do they whisper to him of shells that whiz 

O'er fields made ruddy with wrongs redressed? 
Does the hawk above him an Eagle float ? 

Does he thrill and his boyish heart beat high, 
Hearing the ribbon about his throat 

Flap as a flag as the winds go by ? 

And does he dream of the Warrior's fame — 

This Western boy in his rustic dress? 
For, in miniature, this is the man that came 

Riding out of the Wilderness! — 
The selfsame figure — the knitted brow — 

The eyes full steady — the lips full mute — 
And the face, like the bloom of the orchard bough, 

Pink and pallid, but resolute. 

Ay, this is the man, with features grim 

And stoical as the Sphinx's own, 
That heard the harsh guns calling him, 

As musical as the bugle blown, 
When the sweet spring heavens were clouded o'er 

With a tempest, glowering and wild, 
And our country's flag bowed down before 

Its bursting wrath as a stricken child. 

Thus, ready mounted and booted and spurred, 
He loosed his bridle and dashed away! — 

Like a roll of drums were his hoof-beats heard, 
Like the shriek of the fife his charger's neigh ! 

And over his shoulder and backward blown, 
We heard his voice, and we saw the sod 
30 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Reel, as our wild steeds chased his own 
As though hurled on by the hand of God ! 

And still, in fancy, we see him ride 

In the blood-red front of a hundred frays, 
His face set stolid, but glorified 

As a knight's of the old Arthurian days : 
And victor ever as courtly, too, 

Gently lifting the vanquished foe, 
And staying him with a hand as true 

As dealt the deadly avenging blow. 

So, brighter than all of the cluster of stars 

Of the flag enshrouding his form to-day, 
His face shines forth from the grime of wars 

With a glory that shall not pass away: 
He rests at last: he has borne his part 

Of salutes and salvos and cheers on cheers- 
But O the sobs of his country's heart, 

And the driving rain of a nation's tears ! 



20 The Sphinx 

T KNOW all about the Sphinx— 
-*• I know even what she thinks, 
Staring with her stony eyes 
Up forever at the skies. 

For last night I dreamed that she 
Told me all the mystery — 
Why for aeons mute she sat : — 
She was just cut out for that ! 
31 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
21 Sleep 

r I ^ HOU drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awink, 
-** Muse on me, — drifting out upon thy dreams, 

I lave my soul as in enchanted streams 
Where revelling satyrs pipe along the brink, 
And, tipsy with the melody they drink, 

Uplift their dangling hooves and down the beams 

Of sunshine dance like motes. Thy languor seems 
An ocean-depth of love wherein I sink 

Like some fond Argonaut, right willingly, — 
Because of wooing eyes upturned to mine, 

And siren-arms that coil their sorcery 
About my neck, with kisses so divine, 

The heavens reel above me, and the sea 

Swallows and licks its wet lips over me. 



22 Illileo 

T LLILEO, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales — 
-*■ The stars but strewed the azure as an armor's scattered 

scales ; 
The airs of night were quiet as the breath of silken sails, 
And all your words were sweeter than the notes of night- 
ingales. 

Illileo Legardi, in the garden there alone, 

With your figure carved of fervor, as the Psyche carved 

of stone, 
There came to me no murmur of the fountain's undertone 
So mystically, musically mellow as your own. 

32 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

You whispered low, Illileo — so low the leaves were mute, 
And the echoes faltered breathless in your voice's vain 

pursuit ; 
And there died the distant dalliance of the serenader's lute : 
And I held you in my bosom as the husk may hold the 

fruit. 

Illileo, I listened. I believed you. In my bliss, 

What were all the worlds above me since I found you thus 

in this? — 
Let them reeling reach to win me — even Heaven I would 

miss, 
Grasping earthward! — I would cling here, though I clung 

by just a kiss. 

And blossoms should grow odorless — and lilies all aghast — 
And I said the stars should slacken in their paces through 

the vast, 
Ere yet my loyalty should fail enduring to the last. — 
So vowed I. It is written. It is changeless as the 

past. 

Illileo Legardi, in the shade your palace throws 
Like a cowl about the singer at your gilded porticos, 
A moan goes with the music that may vex the high 

repose 
Of a heart that fades and crumbles as the crimson of a 

rose. 



33 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



23 Ike Walton's Prayer 



1 



CRAVE, dear Lord, 
No boundless hoard 
Of gold and gear, 
Nor jewels fine, 
Nor lands, nor kine, 
Nor treasure-heaps of anything. — 
Let but a little hut be mine 
Where at the hearthstone I may hear 
The cricket sing, 
And have the shine 
Of one glad woman's eyes to make, 
For my poor sake, 

Our simple home a place divine; — 
Just the wee cot — the cricket's chirr- 
Love, and the smiling face of her. 

I pray not for 
Great riches, nor 
For vast estates and castle-halls,— 
Give me to hear the bare footfalls 
Of children o'er 
An oaken floor 
New-rinsed with sunshine, or bespread 
With but the tiny coverlet 
And pillow for the baby's head; 
And, pray Thou, may 
The door stand open and the day 
Send ever in a gentle breeze, 
With fragrance from the locust-trees, 
34 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And drowsy moan of doves, and blur 
Of robin-chirps, and drone of bees, 

With after-hushes of the stir 
Of intermingling sounds, and then 

The goodwife and the smile of her 
Filling the silences again — 
The cricket's call 

And the wee cot, 
Dear Lord of all, 
Deny me not ! 

I pray not that 
Men tremble at 

My power of place 
And lordly sway, — 
I only pray for simple grace 
To look my neighbor in the face 

Full honestly from day to day — 
Yield me his horny palm to hold, 
And I'll not pray 
For gold; — 
The tanned face, garlanded with mirth, 
It hath the kingliest smile on earth; 
The swart brow, diamonded with sweat, 
Hath never need of coronet. 
And so I reach, 

Dear Lord, to Thee, 
And do beseech 
Thou givest me 
The wee cot, and the cricket's chirr, 
Love, and the glad sweet face of her! 



35 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
2 4 Her Hair 

r I A HE beauty of her hair bewilders me — 
-** Pouring adown the brow, its cloven tide 

Swirling about the ears on either side 
And storming round the neck tumultuously : 
Or like the lights of old antiquity 

Through mullioned windows, in cathedrals wide, 

Spilled moltenly o'er figures deified 
In chastest marble, nude of drapery. 
And so I love it. — Either unconfined; 

Or plaited in close braidings manifold; 
Or smoothly drawn; or indolently twined 

In careless knots whose coilings come unrolled 
At any lightest kiss ; or by the wind 

Whipped out in flossy ravellings of gold. 



<?5 Laughter Holding Both His Sides 

A Y, thou varlet! Laugh away! 
*** All the world's a holiday! 
Laugh away, and roar and shout 
Till thy hoarse tongue lolleth out ! 
Bloat thy cheeks, and bulge thine eyes 
Unto bursting; pelt thy thighs 
With thy swollen palms, and roar 
As thou never hast before ! 
Lustier ! wilt thou ! peal on peal ! 
Stiflest? Squat and grind thy heel — 
Wrestle with thy loins, and then 
Wheeze thee whiles, and whoop again! 
36 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
26 Our Kind of a Man 



HP HE kind of a man for you and me ! 
-■* He faces the world unflinchingly, 
And smites, as long as the wrong resists, 
With a knuckled faith and force like fists : 
He lives the life he is preaching of, 
And loves where most is the need of love; 
His voice is clear to the deaf man's ears, 
And his face sublime through the blind man's tears ; 
The light shines out where the clouds were dim, 
And the widow's prayer goes up for him ; 
The latch is clicked at the hovel door 
And the sick man sees the sun once more, 
And out o'er the barren fields he sees 
Springing blossoms and waving trees, 
Feeling as only the dying may, 
That God's own servant has come that way, 
Smoothing the path as it still winds on 
Through the golden gate where his loved have gone. 



The kind of a man for me and you ! 
However little of worth we do 
He credits full, and abides in trust 
That time will teach us how more is just. 
He walks abroad, and he meets all kinds 
Of querulous and uneasy minds, 
And, sympathizing, he shares the pain 
Of the doubts that rack ns, heart and brain; 
37 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, knowing this, as we grasp his hand, 

We are surely coming to understand ! 

He looks on sin with pitying eyes — 

E'en as the Lord, since Paradise, — 

Else, should we read, Though our sins should glow 

As scarlet, they shall be white as snow? — 

And, feeling still, with a grief half glad, 

That the bad are as good as the good are bad, 

He strikes straight out for the Right — and he 

Is the kind of a man for you and me ! 



27 Last Night — and This 

T AST night — how deep the darkness was ! 
-*— ' And well I knew its depths,, because 
I waded it from shore to shore, 
Thinking to reach the light no more. 

She would not even touch my hand. — 
The winds rose and the cedars fanned 
The moon out, and the stars fled back 
In heaven and hid — and all was black! 

But ah ! To-night a summons came, 
Signed with a tear-drop for a name — 
For as I wondering kissed it, lo, 
A line beneath it told me so. 

And now — the moon hangs over me 
A disk of dazzling brilliancy, 
And every star-tip stabs my sight 
With splintered glitterings of light ! 
38 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
28 The Lost Kiss 

I PUT by the half-written poem, 
While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, 
Writes on, — "Had I words to complete it, 

Who'd read it, or who'd understand ?" 
But the little bare feet on the stairway, 

And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, 
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, 
Cry up to me over it all. 

So I gather it up — where was broken 

The tear-faded thread of my theme, 
Telling how, as one night I sat writing, 

A fairy broke in on my dream, 
A little inquisitive fairy — 

My own little girl, with the gold 
Of the sun in her hair, and the dewy 

Blue eyes of the fairies of old. 

'Twas the dear little girl that I scolded — 

"For was it a moment like this," 
I said, "when she knew I was busy, 

To come romping in for a kiss? — 
Come rowdying up from her mother, 

And clamoring there at my knee 
For 'One 'ittle kiss for my dolly, 

And one 'ittle uzzer for me !' " 

God, pity the heart that repelled her, 

And the cold hand that turned her away, 

And take, from the lips that denied her, 
This answerlcss prayer of to day! 
39 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Take, Lord, from my mem'ry forever 

That pitiful sob of despair, 
And the patter and trip of the little bare feet, 

And the one piercing cry on the stair! 

I put by the half -written poem, 

While the pen, idly trailed in my hand, 
Writes on, — "Had I words to complete it, 

Who'd read it, or who'd understand?" 
But the little bare feet on the stairway, 

And the faint, smothered laugh in the hall, 
And the eerie-low lisp on the silence, 

Cry up to me over it all. 



29 Dearth 

T HOLD your trembling hand to-night- — and yet 
-*- I may not know what wealth of bliss is mine, 

My heart is such a curious design 
Of trust and jealousy! Your eyes are wet — 
So must I think they jewel some regret, — 
And lo, the loving arms that round me twine 
Cling only as the tendrils of a vine 
Whose fruit has long been gathered : I forget, 
While crimson clusters of your kisses press 
Their wine out on my lips, my royal fare 
Of rapture, since blind fancy needs must guess 

They once poured out their sweetness otherwhere, 
With fuller flavoring of happiness 
Than e'en your broken sobs may now declare. 
40 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
jo The Beautiful City 

nr HE Beautiful City ! Forever 
■** Its rapturous praises resound; 
We fain would behold it — but never 

A glimpse of its glory is found : 
We slacken our lips at the tender 

White breasts of our mothers to hear 
Of its marvellous beauty and splendor; — 

We see— but the gleam of a tear ! 

Yet never the story may tire us- — 

First graven in symbols of stone — 
Rewritten on scrolls of papyrus 

And parchment, and scattered and blown 
By the winds of the tongues of all nations, 

Like a litter of leaves wildly whirled 
Down the rack of a hundred translations, 

From the earliest lisp of the world. 

We compass the earth and the ocean, 

From the Orient's uttermost light, 
To where the last ripple in motion 

Lips hem of the skirt of the night, — 
But the Beautiful City evades us — 

No spire of it glints in the sun — 
No glad-bannered battlement shades us 

When all our long journey is done. 

Where lies it? We question and listen; 

Wc lean from the mountain, or mast. 
And see but dull earth, or the glisten 

Of seas inconceivably vast : 
41 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The dust of the one blurs our vision, 
The glare of the other our brain, 

Nor city nor island Elysian 
In all of the land or the main ! 

We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders 

Of organs tumultuous roll, 
And the longing heart listens and wonders, 

And the eyes look aloft from the soul : 
But the chanson grows fainter and fainter, 

Swoons wholly away and is dead; 
And our eyes only reach where the painter 

Has dabbled a saint overhead. 

The Beautiful City! O mortal, 

Fare hopefully on in thy quest, 
Pass down through the green grassy portal 

That leads to the Valley of Rest; 
There first passed the One who, in pity 

Of all thy great yearning, awaits 
To point out The Beautiful City, 

And loosen the trump at the gates. 



. 3 i Becalmed 



\ ^TOULD that the winds might only blow 

* * As they blew in the golden long ago ! — 
Laden with odors of Orient isles 
Where ever and ever the sunshine smiles, 
And the bright sands blend with the shady trees, 
And the lotus blooms in the midst of these. 
42 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



Warm winds won from the midland vales 

To where the tress of the Siren trails 

O'er the flossy tip of the mountain phlox 

And the bare limbs twined in the crested rocks, 

High above as the sea-gulls flap 

Their lopping wings at the thunder-clap. 

in 

Ah ! that the winds might rise and blow 
The great surge up from the port below, 
Bloating the sad, lank, silken sails 
Of the Argo out with the swift, sweet gales 
That blew from Colchis when Jason had 
His love's full will and his heart was glad — 
When Medea's voice was soft and low. 
Ah ! that the winds might rise and blow ! 



32 From the Headboard of a Grave 
in Paraguay 

A TROTH, and a grief, and a blessing, 
^ *■ Disguised them and came this way, — 
And one was a promise, and one was a doubt. 
And one was a rainy day. 

And they met betimes with this maiden, — 
And the promise it spake and lied, 

And the doubt it gibbered and hogged itself, 
And the rainy day — she died. 
43 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
JJ Indiana 

/^^\UR Land— our Home !— the common home indeed 

^-^ Of soil-born children and adopted ones— 
The stately daughters and the stalwart sons 

Of Industry : — All greeting and godspeed ! 

O home to proudly live for, and, if need 
Be, proudly die for, with the roar of guns 
Blent with our latest prayer. — So died men once. . . 

Lo, Peace ! ... As we look on the land they f reed- 
Its harvests all in ocean-overflow 

Poured round autumnal coasts in billowy gold — 
Its corn and wine and balmed fruits and flow'rs, — 
We know the exaltation that they know 
Who now, steadfast inheritors, behold 
The Land Elysian, marvelling "This is ours !" 



24 Fame 

f~\ NCE, in a dream, I saw a man, 

^-^ With haggard face and tangled hair, 
And eyes that nursed as wild a care 

As gaunt Starvation ever can ; 

And in his hand he held a wand 

Whose magic touch gave life and thought 
Unto a form his fancy wrought 

And robed with coloring so grand, 
It seemed the reflex of some child 
Of Heaven, fair and undefiled — 
A face of purity and love — 
To woo him into worlds above : 
44 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And as I gazed with dazzled eyes, 
A gleaming smile lit up his lips 
As his bright soul from its eclipse 

Went flashing into Paradise. 

Then tardy Fame came through the door 

And found a pictures-nothing more. 

And once I saw a man, alone, 

In abject poverty, with hand 
Uplifted o'er a block of stone 

That took a shape at his command 
And smiled upon him, fair and good — 
A perfect work of womanhood, 
Save that the eyes might never weep, 
Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep, 
Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist, 
Be brushed away, caressed and kissed. 
And as in awe I gazed on her, 

I saw the sculptor's chisel fall — 
I saw him sink, without a moan, 
Sink lifeless at the feet of stone, 
And lie there like a worshipper. 

Fame crossed the threshold of the hall, 

And found a statue — that was all. 

And once I saw a man who drew 
A gloom about him like a cloak, 

And wandered aimlessly. The few 
Who spoke of him at all, but spoke 

Disparagingly of a mind 

The Fates had faultily designed : 



45 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Too indolent for modern times — 

Too fanciful, and full of whims — 
For, talking to himself in rhymes, 

And scrawling never-heard-of hymns, 
The idle life to which he clung 
Was worthless as the songs he sung ! 
I saw him, in my vision, filled 
With rapture o'er a spray of bloom 
The wind threw in his lonely room ; 
And of the sweet perfume it spilled 
He drank to drunkenness, and flung 
His long hair back, and laughed and sung 
And clapped his hands as children do 
At fairy tales they listen to, 
While from his flying quill there dripped 
Such music on his manuscript 
That he who listens to the words 
May close his eyes and dream the birds 
Are twittering on every hand 
A language he can understand. 
He journeyed on through life, unknown, 
Without one friend to call his own; 
He tired. No kindly hand to press 
The cooling touch of tenderness 
Upon his burning brow, nor lift 
To his parched lips God's freest gift- 
No sympathetic sob or sigh 
Of trembling lips — no sorrowing eye 
Looked out through tears to see him die. 
And Fame her greenest laurels brought 
To crown a head that heeded not. 



46 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And this is Fame ! A thing, indeed, 

That only comes when least the need : 

The wisest minds of every age 

The book of life from page to page 

Have searched in vain; each lesson conned 

Will promise it the page beyond — 

Until the last, when dusk of night 

Falls over it, and reason's light 

Is smothered by that unknown friend 

Who signs his nom de plume, The End. 



55 When Bessie Died 

"If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, 

And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; 
If the zvhite feet into the grave had tripped — " 

\ I yTHEN Bessie died— 
* * We braided the brown hair, and tied 
It just as her own little hands 
Had fastened back the silken strands 
A thousand times — the crimson bit 
Of ribbon woven into it 
That she had worn with childish pride — 
Smoothed down the dainty bow — and cried — 
When Bessie died. 

When Bessie died — 
We drew the nursery blinds aside, 
And, as the morning in the room 
Burst like a primrose into bloom, 
47 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Her pet canary's cage we hung 

Where she might hear him when he sung- 

And yet not any note he tried, 

Though she lay listening folded-eyed. 

When Bessie died — 

We writhed in prayer unsatisfied: 

We begged of God, and He did smile 

In silence on us all the while; 

And we did see Him, through our tears, 

Enfolding that fair form of hers, 

She laughing back against His love 

The kisses we had nothing of— 

And death to us He still denied, 

When Bessie died — 

When Bessie died. 



jd The Shozver 

r I A HE landscape, like the awed face of a child, 

-■* Grew curiously blurred ; a hush of death 
Fell on the fields, and in the darkened wild 
The zephyr held its breath. 



No wavering glamour-work of light and shade 
Dappled the shivering surface of the brook; 

The frightened ripples in their ambuscade 
Of willows thrilled and shook. 

The sullen day grew darker, and anon 
Dim flashes of pent anger lit the sky; 

48 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With rumbling wheels of wrath came rolling on 
The storm's artillery. 

The cloud above put on its blackest frown, 
And then, as with a vengeful cry of pain, 

The lightning snatched it, ripped and flung it down 
In ravelled shreds of rain : 

While I, transfigured by some wondrous art, 
Bowed with the thirsty lilies to the sod, 

My empty soul trimmed over, and my heart 
Drenched with the love of God. 



3/ The Dead Lover 

'I % IME is so long when a man is dead ! 
-■* Some one sews ; and the room is made 
Very clean ; and the light is shed 
Soft through the window-shade. 

Yesterday I thought : "I know 

Just how the bells will sound, and how 

The friends will talk, and the sermon go, 
And the hearse-horse bow and bow !" 

This is to-day; and I have no thing 
To think of — nothing whatever to do 

But to hear the throb of the pulse of a wing 
That wants to fly back to you. 



49 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

38 Art and Love 

T T E faced his canvas (as a seer whose ken 

-■* -*■ Pierces the crust of this existence through) 

And smiled beyond on that his genius knew 
Ere mated with his being. Conscious then 
Of his high theme alone, he smiled again 

Straight back upon himself in many a hue 

And tint, and light and shade, which slowly grew 
Enfeatured of a fair girl's face, as when 

First time she smiles for love's sake with no fear. 
So wrought he, witless that behind him leant 

A woman, with old features, dim and sear, 

And glamoured eyes that felt the brimming tear, 
And with a voice, like some sad instrument, 

That sighing said, "I'm dead there; love me here!'' 



jp The King 

HP HEY rode right out of the morning sun- 
■*■ A glimmering, glittering cavalcade 
Of knights and ladies, and every one 

In princely sheen arrayed; 
And the king of them all, O he rode ahead, 
With a helmet of gold, and a plume of red 
That spurted about in the breeze and bled 

In the bloom of the everglade. 

And they rode high over the dewy lawn, 
With brave, glad banners of every hue 

That rolled in ripples, as they rode on 
In splendor, two and two; 
50 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the tinkling links of the golden reins 
Of the steeds they rode rang such refrains 
As the castanets in a dream of Spaing 
Intensest gold and blue. 

And they rode and rode; and the steeds they neighed 

And pranced, and the sun on their glossy hides 
Flickered and lightened and glanced and played 

Like the moon on rippling tides ; 
And their manes were silken, and thick and strong, 
And their tails were flossy, and fetlock-long, 
And jostled in time to the teeming throng, 
And their knightly song besides. 

Clank of scabbard and jingle of spur, 

And the fluttering sash of the queen went wild 
In the wind, and the proud king glanced at her 

As one at a wilful child, — 
And as knight and lady away they flew, 
And the banners flapped, and the falcon, too, 
And the lances flashed and the bugle blew, 
He kissed his hand and smiled. — 

And then, like a slanting sunlit shower, 

The pageant glittered across the plain, 
And the turf spun back, and the wildweed flower 

Was only a crimson stain. 
And a dreamer's eyes they are downward cast, 
As he blends these words with the wailing blast : 
"It is the King of the Year rides past !" 
And Autumn is here again. 



51 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

40 A Voice from the Farm 

T T is my dream to have you here with me, 
-*■ Out of the heated city's dust and din — 

Here where the colts have room to gambol in, 
And kine to graze, in clover to the knee. 
I want to see your wan face happily 

Lit with the wholesome smiles that have not been 
In use since the old games you used to win 
When we pitched horseshoes : And I want to be 
At utter loaf with you in this dim land 

Of grove and meadow, while the crickets make 
Our own talk tedious, and the bat wields 
His bulky flight, as we cease converse and 
In a dusk like velvet smoothly take 
Our way toward home across the dewy fields. 

41 The Serenade 

r I ^ HE midnight is not more bewildering 
-* To her drowsed eyes, than, to her ears, the sound 

Of dim, sweet singing voices, interwound 
With purl of flute and subtle twang of string, 
Strained through the lattice, where the roses cling 

And, with their fragrance, waft the notes around 

Her haunted senses. Thirsting beyond bound 
Of her slow-yielding dreams, the lilt and swing 

Of the mysterious, delirious tune, 
She drains like some strange opiate, with awed eyes 

Upraised against her casement, where, aswoon, 
The stars fail from her sight, and up the skies 

Of alien azure rolls the full round moon 

Like some vast bubble blown of summer noon. 
52 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

42 Anselmo 

YEARS did I vainly seek the good Lord's grace, — 
Prayed, fasted, and did penance dire and dread; 
Did kneel, with bleeding knees and rainy face, 
And mouth the dust, with ashes on my head ; 
Yea, still with knotted scourge the flesh I flayed, 

Rent fresh the wounds, and moaned and shrieked in- 
sanely; 
And froth oozed with the pleadings that I made, 
And yet I prayed on vainly, vainly, vainly! 

A time, from out of swoon I lifted eye, 

To find a wretched outcast, gray and grim, 
Bathing my brow, with many a pitying sigh, 

And I did pray God's grace might rest on him. — 
Then, lo ! a gentle voice fell on mine ears — 

"Thou shalt not sob in suppliance hereafter; 
Take up thy prayers and wring them dry of tears, 

And lift them, white and pure with love and laughter !" 

So is it now for all men else I pray; 
So is it I am blest and glad alway. 

43 Who Bides His Time 

\liT 110 bides his time, and day by day 
* ^ Faces defeat full patiently, 
And lifts a mirthful roundelay, 

However poor his fortunes be, — 
lie will not fail in any qualm 
Of poverty — the paltry dime 
It will grow golden in liis palm, 
Who bides his time. 
53 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Who bides his time — he tastes the sweet 

Of honey in the saltest tear; 
And though he fares with slowest feet, 

Joy runs to meet him, drawing near : 
The birds are heralds of his cause; 

And, like a never-ending rhyme, 
The roadsides bloom in his applause, 
Who bides his time. 

Who bides his time, and fevers not 
In the hot race that none achieves, 

Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought 
With crimson berries in the leaves ; 

And he shall reign a goodly king, 
And sway his hand o'er every clime, 

With peace writ on his signet-ring, 
Who bides his time. 



44 The Harper 

T IKE a drift of faded blossoms 
*^* Caught in a slanting rain, 
His fingers glimpsed down the strings of his harp 
In a tremulous refrain : 



Patter and tinkle, and drip and drip ! 

Ah ! but the chords were rainy sweet ! 
And I closed my eyes and I bit my lip, 

As he played there in the street. 



54 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Patter, and drip, and tinkle ! 

And there was the little bed 
In the corner of the garret, 

And the rafters overhead! 

And there was the little window — 
Tinkle, and drip, and drip!— 

The rain above, and a mother's love, 
And God's companionship ! 



45 A Song 

HP HERE is ever a song somewhere, my dear ; 
-■* There is ever a something sings alway : 
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear, 

And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray. 
The sunshine showers across the grain, 

And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree; 
And in and out, when the eaves drip rain, 

The swallows are twittering ceaselessly. 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 

Be the skies above or dark or fair, 
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear — 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear — 

There is ever a song somewhere ! 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 
In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue : 

The robin pipes when the sun is here, 

And the cricket chirrups the whole night through. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow, 
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear ; 

But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow, 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear. 

There is ever a song somewhere, my dear, 

Be the skies above or dark or fair, 
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear- 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear — '■ 
There is ever a song somewhere ! 



46 A Fruit-Piece 



T 



HE afternoon of summer folds 
Its warm arms round the marigolds, 



And, with its gleaming ringers, pets 
The watered pinks and violets 

That from the casement vases spill, 
Over the cottage window-sill, 

Their fragrance down the garden walks 
Where droop the dry-mouthed hollyhocks. 

How vividly the sunshine scrawls 
The grape-vine shadows on the walls ! 

How like a truant swings the breeze 
In high boughs of the apple-trees ! 



56 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The slender "free-stone" lifts aloof, 
Full languidly above the roof, 

A hoard of fruitage, stamped with gold 
And precious mintings manifold. 

High up, through curled green leaves, a pear 
Hangs hot with ripeness here and there. 

Beneath the sagging trellisings, 
In lush, lack-lustre clusterings, 

Great torpid grapes, all fattened through 
With moon and sunshine, shade and dew, 

Until their swollen girths express 
But forms of limp deliciousness — 

Drugged to an indolence divine 
With heaven's own sacramental wine. 



47 If I Knezv What Poets Know 

T F I knew wliat poets know, 
-*■ Would I write a rhyme 
Of the buds that never blow 

In the summer-time? 
Would I sing of golden seeds 
Springing up in ironweeds? 
And of raindrops turned to snow, 
If I knew what poets know? 
57 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Did I know what poets do, 

Would I sing a song 
Sadder than the pigeon's coo 

When the days are long? 
Where I found a heart in pain, 
I would make it glad again; 
And the false should be the true, 
Did I know what poets do. 

If I knew what poets know, 

I would find a. theme 
Sweeter than the placid flow 

Of the fairest dream : 
I would sing of love that lives 
On the errors it forgives ; 
And the world would better grow 
If I knew what poets know. 



48 Where the Children Used to Play 

nr^HE old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine, 

■*• And filled it is with plenty and to spare, — 
But we are lonely here in life's decline, 
Though fortune smiles around us everywhere : 
We look across the gold 
Of the harvests, as of old — 
The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay; 
But most we turn our gaze, 
As with eyes of other days, 
To the orchard where the children used to play. 



58 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O from our life's full measure 
And rich hoard of worldly treasure 

We often turn our weary eyes away, 
And hand in hand we wander 
Down the old path winding yonder 

To the orchard where the children used to play. 

Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds ; 

The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'er ; 
The grove's a paradise of singing birds — 

The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door ; 

Yet lonely, lonely still, 

Let us prosper as we will, 
Our old hearts seem so empty everyway — 

We can only through a mist 

See the faces we have kissed 
In the orchard where the children used to play. 

O from our life's full measure 
And rich hoard of worldly treasure 

We often turn our weary eyes away, 
And hand in hand we wander 
Down the old path winding- yonder 

To the orchard where the children used to play. 



50 



PIPES O' PAN 



49 Pan 

r I ^HIS Pan is but an idle god, I guess, 
*■ Since all the fair midsummer of my dreams 

He loiters listlessly by woody streams, 
Soaking the lush glooms up with laziness ; 
Or drowsing while the maiden-winds caress 

Him prankishly, and powder him with gleams 

Of sifted sunshine. And he ever seems 
Drugged with a joy unutterable — unless 

His low pipes whistle hints of it far out 
Across the ripples to the dragon-fly 

That, like a wind-born blossom blown about, 
Drops quiveringly down, as though to die — 

Then lifts and wavers on, as if in doubt 

Whether to fan his wings or fly without. 



50 Kissing the Rod 

/^\ HEART of mine, we shouldn't 

^-^ Worry so ! 

What weVe missed of calm we couldn't 

Have, you know ! 
What we've met of stormy pain, 
And of sorrow's driving rain, 
We can better meet again, 

If it blow ! 

60 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

We have erred in that dark hour 

We have known, 
When our tears fell with the shower, 

All alone !— 
Were not shine and shadow blent 
As the gracious Master meant? — 
Let us temper our content 

With His own. 

For, we know, not every morrow 

Can be sad; 
So, forgetting all the sorrow 

We have had, 
Let us fold away our fears, 
And put by our foolish tears, 
And through all the coming years 

Just be glad. 



5/ The Legend Glorified 

"T DEEM that God is not disquieted"— 

-■■ This in a mighty poet's rhymes I read ; 
And blazoned so forever doth abide 
Within my soul the legend glorified. 

Though awful tempests thunder overhead, 
I deem that God is not disquieted, — 
The faith that trembles somewhat yet is sure 
Through storm and darkness of a way secure. 



61 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Bleak winters, when the naked spirit hears 

The break of hearts, through stinging sleet of tears, 

I deem that God is not disquieted; 

Against all stresses am I clothed and fed. 

Nay, even with fixed eyes and broken breath, 
My feet dip down into the tides of death, 
Nor any friend be left, nor prayer be said, 
I deem that God is not disquieted. 



52 Wait for the Morning 

\\TAIT for the morning: — It will come, indeed, 

* * As surely as the night hath given need. 
The yearning eyes, at last, will strain their sight 
No more unanswered by the morning light ; 
No longer will they vainly strive, through tears, 
To pierce the darkness of thy doubts and fears, 
But, bathed in balmy dews and rays of dawn, 
Will smile with rapture o'er the darkness drawn. 

Wait for the morning, O thou smitten child, 
Scorned, scourged and persecuted and reviled — 
Athirst and famishing, none pitying thee, 
Crowned with the twisted thorns of agony — 
No faintest gleam of sunlight through the dense 
Infinity of gloom to lead thee thence. — 
Wait for the morning: — It will come, indeed, 
As surely as the night hath given need. 



62 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
55 Bells Jangled 

X LIE low-coiled in a nest of dreams ; 

-*- The lamp gleams dim i' the odorous gloom, 
And the stars at the casement leak long gleams 

Of misty light through the haunted room 
Where I lie low-coiled in dreams. 

The night winds ooze o'er my dusk-drowned face 
In a dewy flood that ebbs and flows, 

Washing a surf of dim white lace 
Under my throat and the dark red rose 

In the shade of my dusk-drowned face. 

There's a silken strand of some strange sound 

Slipping out of a skein of song: 
Eerily as a call unwound 

From a fairy bugle, it slides along 
In a silken strand of sound. 

There's the tinkling drip of a faint guitar; 

There's a gurgling flute, and a blaring horn 
Blowing bubbles of tune afar 

O'er the misty heights of the hills of morn, 
To the drip of a faint guitar. 

And I dream that I neither sleep nor wake — 

Careless am I if I wake or sleep, 
For my soul floats out on the waves that break 

In crests of song on the shoreless deep 
Where I neither sleep nor wake. 



6 3 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
54 An Old Sweetheart of Mine 

A N old sweetheart of mine! — Is this her presence here 
^ *^ with me, 

Or but a vain creation of a lover's memory? 
A fair, illusive vision that would vanish into air 
Dared I even touch the silence with the whisper of a 
prayer ? 

Nay, let me then believe in all the blended false and true — 
The semblance of the old love and the substance of the 

new, — 
The then of changeless sunny days — the now of shower and 

shine — 
But Love forever smiling — as that old sweetheart of mine. 

This ever-restful sense of home, though shouts ring in the 
hall.— 

The easy-chair — -the old bookshelves and prints along the 
wall; 

The rare Habanas in their box, or gaunt churchwarden- 
stem 

That often wags, above the jar, derisively at them. 

As one who cons at evening o'er an album, all alone, 
And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, 
So I turn the leaves of Fancy, till, in shadowy design, 
I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine. 

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, 
As I turn it low — to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, 
And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke 
Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke, 

6 4 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Tis a fragrant retrospection, — for the loving thoughts that 

start 
Into being are like perfume from the blossom of the heart; 
And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine — 
When my truant fancies wander with that old sweetheart 

of mine. 

Though I hear beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, 
The voices of my children and the mother as she sings — 
I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme 
When Care has casf her anchor in the harbor of a dream — 

In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm 
To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm, — 
For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine 
That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of 
mine. 

O Childhood-days enchanted ! O the magic of the Spring ! — 
With all green boughs to blossom white, and all bluebirds 

to sing! 
When all the air, to toss and quaff, made life a jubilee 
And changed the children's song and laugh to shrieks of 

ecstasy. 

With eyes half closed in clouds that ooze from lips that 

taste, as well, 
The peppermint and cinnamon, I hear the old School-bell, 
And from "Recess" romp in again from "Blackmail's" 

broken line, 
To smile, behind my "lesson," at that old sweetheart oi 

mine. 

65 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, 
Floats out of my tobacco as the Genii from the vase; 
And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes 
As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies. 

I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress 
She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the 

caress 
With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine 
Grew 'round the stump," she loved me— that old sweet- 
heart of mine. 

Again I made her presents, in a really helpless way, — 
The big "Rhode Island Greening" — I was hungry, too, that 

day ! — 
But I follow her from Spelling, with her hand behind her — 

so — 
And I slip the apple in it — and the Teacher doesn't know ! 

I give my treasures to her— all, — my pencil — blue-and- 

red ; — 
And, if little girls played marbles, mine should all be hers, 

instead ! 
But she gave me her photograph, and printed "Ever Thine" 
Across the back — in blue-and-red — that old sweetheart of 

mine ! 

And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, 
As we used to talk together of the future we had planned, — 
When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do 
But write the tender verses that she set the music to . . . 



66 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When we should live together in a cozy little cot 

Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, 

Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever 

fine, 
And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of 

mine. 

When I should be her lover forever and a day, 

And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was 

gray; 
And we should be so happy that when either's lips were 

dumb 
They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had 

come. 

But, ah ! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, 
And the door is softly opened, and — my wife is standing 

there : 
Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign, — 
To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine. 



55 A Leave-Taking 

CHE will not smile; 
^ She will not stir : 
I marvel while 
I look on her. 

The lips are chilly 

And will not speak ; 
The ghost of a lily 
In either check. 

6 7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Her hair— ah me! — 

Her hair — her hair! 
How helplessly 
My hands go there ! 
But my caresses 
Meet not hers, 

golden tresses 

That thread my tears ! 

I kiss the eyes 

On either lid, 
Where her love lies 

Forever hid. 

1 cease my weeping 
And smile and say: 

I shall be sleeping 
Thus, some day! 



5<5 Kneeling With Herrick 

T~\ EAR Lord, to Thee my knee is bent- 
*^ Give me content — 
Full-pleasured with what comes to me, 

Whate'er it be: 
An humble roof — a frugal board, 

And simple hoard ; 
The wintry fagot piled beside 

The chimney wide, 



68 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

While the enwreathing flames up-sprout 

And twine about 
The brazen dogs that guard my hearth 

And household worth : 
Tinge with the embers' ruddy glow 

The rafters low; 
And let the sparks snap with delight, 

As fingers might 
That mark deft measures of some tune 

The children croon : 
Then, with good friends, the rarest few 

Thou holdest true, 
Ranged round about the blaze, to share 

My comfort there, — 
Give me to claim the service meet 

That makes each seat 
A place of honor, and each guest 

Loved as the rest. 



57 Babyhood 

T T EIGH-HO ! Babyhood ! Tell me where you linger ! 
-*■ -*• Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray ; 
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger 
Back to the lotus-lands of the far-away ! 

Turn back the leaves of life. — Don't read the story. — 
Let's find the pictures, and fancy all the rest; 

We can fill the written pages with a brighter glory 
Than Old Time, the story-teller, at his very best. 

69 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Turn to the brook where the honeysuckle tipping 
O'er its vase of perfume spills it on the breeze, 

And the bee and humming-bird in ecstasy are sipping 
From the fairy-flagons of the blooming locust-trees. 

Turn to the lane — where we used to "teeter-totter," 

Printing little foot-palms in the mellow mold- 
Laughing at the lazy cattle wading in the water 
Where the ripples dimple round the buttercups of gold. 

Where the dusky turtle lies basking on the gravel 
Of the sunny sand-bar in the middle tide, 

And the ghostly dragon-fly pauses in his travel 
To rest like a blossom where the water-lily died. 

Heigh-ho ! Babyhood ! Tell me where you linger ! 

Let's toddle home again, for we have gone astray ; 
Take this eager hand of mine and lead me by the finger 

Back to the lotus-lands of the far-away ! 



5# In a Box 

T SAW them last night in a box at the play — 

-^ Old age and young youth side by side. — 

You might know by the glasses that pointed that way 

That they were — a groom and a bride ; 
And you might have known, too, by the face of the groom, 

And the tilt of his head, and the grim 
Little smile of his lip, he was proud to presume 

That we men were all envying him. 

70 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Well, she was superb — an Elaine in the face — 

A Godiva in figure and mien, 
With the arm and the wrist of a Parian "Grace," 

And the high-lifted brow of a queen; 
But I thought, in the splendor of wealth and of pride, 

And her beauty's ostensible prize, 
I should hardly be glad if she sat by my side 

With that far-away look in her eyes. 



59 Lullaby 

r I ^HE maple strews the embers of its leaves 

-** O'er the laggard swallows nestled 'neath the eaves ; 
And the moody cricket falters in his cry — Baby-bye ! — 
And the lid of night is falling o'er the sky — Baby-bye ! — 
The lid of night is falling o'er the sky ! 

The rose is lying pallid, and the cup 
Of the frosted calla-lily folded up; 

And the breezes through the garden sob and sigh — Baby- 
bye ! — 
O'er the sleeping blooms of Summer where they lie — Baby- 
bye ! — 
O'er the sleeping blooms of Summer where they lie ! 

Yet, Baby — O my Baby, for your sake 
This heart of mine is ever wide awake, 

And my love may never droop a drowsy eye — Baby-bye! — 
Till your own are wet above me when T die--Baby-bye ! — 
Till your own are wet above me when 1 die. 
7* 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

60 To My Good Master 

T N FANCY, always, at thy desk, thrown wide, 

-■■ Thy most betreasured books ranged neighborly — 

The rarest rhymes of every land and sea 
And curious tongue — thine old face glorified, — 
Thou haltest thy glib quill, and, laughing-eyed, 

Givest hale welcome even unto me, 

Profaning thus thine attic's sanctity, 
Briefly to visit, still yet to abide 
Enthralled there of thy sorcery of wit 

And thy songs' most exceeding dear conceits. 

O lips, cleft to the ripe core of all sweets, 

With poems, like nectar, issuing therefrom, 

Thy gentle utterances do overcome 
My listening heart and all the love of it ! 

61 Dear Hands 

HPHE touches of her hands are like the fall 

-*■ Of velvet snowflakes; like the touch of down 
The peach just brushes 'gainst the garden wall ; 
The flossy fondlings of the thistle-wisp 

Caught in the crinkle of a leaf of brown 
The blighting frost fyath turned from green to crisp. 

Soft as the falling of the dusk at night, 
The touches of her hands, and the delight — 

The touches of her hands ! 
The touches of her hands are like the dew 
That falls so softly down no one e'er knew 
The touch thereof save lovers like to one 
Astray in lights where ranged Endymion. 
72 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O rarely soft, the touches of her hands, 
As drowsy zephyrs in enchanted lands; 

Or pulse of dying fay; or fairy sighs; 
Or — in between the midnight and the dawn, 
When long unrest and tears and fears are gone — 

Sleep, smoothing down the lids of weary eyes. 



62 Three Dead Friends 

A LWAYS suddenly they are gone — 
•*■ *• The friends we trusted and held secure — 
Suddenly we are gazing on, 

Not a smiling face, but the marble-pure 
Dead mask of a face that nevermore 

To a smile of ours will make reply — 

The lips close-locked as the eyelids are. — 
Gone — swift as the flash of the molten ore 

A meteor pours through a midnight sky, 
Leaving it blind of a single star. 

Tell us, O Death, Remorseless Might! 

What is this old, unescapable ire 
You wreak on us? — from the birth of light 

Till the world be charred to a core of fire ! 
We do no evil thing to you — 

We seek to evade you — that is all — 

That is your will — you will not be known 
Of men. What, then, would you have us do? — 
Cringe, and wait till your vengeance fall. 

And your graves be fed, and the trumpet blown? 
73 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

You desire no friends ; but we — O we 

Need them so, as we falter here, 
Fumbling through each new vacancy, 

As each is stricken that we hold dear. 
One you struck but a year ago ; 

And one not a month ago ; and one — 
(God's vast pity!) — and one lies now 
Where the widow wails, in her nameless woe, 

And the soldiers pace, with the sword and gun, 
Where the comrade sleeps, with the laureled brow. 

And what did the first? — that wayward soul, 

Clothed of sorrow, yet nude of sin, 
And with all hearts bowed in the strange control 

Of the heavenly voice of his violin. 
Why, it was music the way he stood, 

So grand was the poise of the head and so 
Full was the figure of majesty! — 
One heard with the eyes, as a deaf man would, 

And with all sense brimmed to the overflow 
With tears of anguish and ecstasy. 

And what did the girl, with the great warm light 

Of genius sunning her eyes of blue, 
With her heart so pure, and her soul so white — 

What, O Death, did she do to you? 
Through field and wood as a child she strayed, 
As Nature, the dear sweet mother, led; 
While from her canvas, mirrored back, 
Glimmered the stream through the everglade 
Where the grape-vine trailed from the trees to wed 
Its likeness of emerald, blue, and black. 
74 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And what did he, who, the last of these, 

Faced you, with never a fear, O Death? 
Did you hate him that he loved the breeze, 

And the morning dews, and the rose's breath? 
Did you hate him that he answered not 

Your hate again — but turned, instead, 
His only hate on his country's wrongs? 
Well — you possess him, dead !— but what 

Of the good he wrought? — With laureled head 
He bides with us in his deeds and songs. 

Laureled, first, that he bravely fought, 

And forged a way to our flag's release ; 
Laureled, next, for the harp he taught 

To wake glad songs in the days of peace — 
Songs of the woodland haunts he held 

As close in his love as they held their bloom 
In their inmost bosoms of leaf and vine — 
Songs that echoed and pulsed and welled 

Through the town's pent streets, and the sick child's room, 
Pure as a shower in soft sunshine. 

Claim them, Death; yet their fame endures. 

What friend next will you rend from us 
In that cold, pitiless way of yours, 

And leave us a grief more dolorous? 
Speak to us ! — tell us, O Dreadful Power ! — 
Are we to have not a lone friend left? — 
Since, frozen, sodden, or green the sod, 
In every second of every hour, 
Some one, Death, you have thus bereft, 
Half inaudibly shrieks to God. 
75 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
63 In the South 

'THHERE is a princess in the South 
-■" About whose beauty rumors hum 
Like honey-bees about the mouth 
Of roses dewdrops falter from; 
And O her hair is like the fine 
Clear amber of a jostled wine 
In tropic revels ; and her eyes 
Are blue as rifts of Paradise. 

Such beauty as may none before 
Kneel daringly, to kiss the tips 
Of fingers such as knights of yore 
Had died to lift against their lips : 
Such eyes as might the eyes of gold 
Of all the stars of night behold 
With glittering envy, and so glare 
In dazzling splendor of despair. 

So, were I but a minstrel, deft 

At weaving, with the trembling strings 
Of my glad harp, the warp and weft 
Of rondels such as rapture sings, — 
I'd loop my lyre across my breast, 
Nor stay me till my knee found rest 
In midnight banks of bud and flower 
Beneath my lady's lattice-bower. 

And there, drenched with the teary dews, 
I'd woo her with such wondrous art 

As well might stanch the songs that ooze 
Out of the mock -bird's breaking heart; 

76 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

So light, so tender, and so sweet 
Should be the words I would repeat, 
Her casement, on my gradual sight, 
Would blossom as a lily might. 



64 The Lost Path 

A LONE they walked — their fingers knit together 
-*■ ^ And swaying listlessly as might a swing 
Wherein Dan Cupid dangled in the weather 
Of some sun-flooded afternoon of Spring. 

Within the clover-fields the tickled cricket 

Laughed lightly as they loitered down the lane, 

And from the covert of the hazel-thicket 
The squirrel peeped and laughed at them again. 

The bumblebee that tipped the lily-vases 
Along the roadside in the shadows dim, 

Went following the blossoms of their faces 
As tho' their sweets must needs be shared with him. 

Between the pasture bars the wondering cattle 
Stared wistfully, and from their mellow bells 

Shook out a welcoming whose dreamy rattle 
Fell swooningly away in faint farewells. 

And tho* at last the gloom of night fell o'er them 
And folded all the landscape from their eyes, 

They only knew the dusky path before them 
Was leading safely on to Paradise. 

77 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

65 In Bohemia 

TJ A ! MY DEAR ! I'm back again— 
■*- -*■ Vendor of Bohemia's wares! 
Lordy! How it pants a man 
Climbing up those awful stairs ! 
Well, I've made the dealer say 
Your sketch might sell, anyway ! 
And I've made a publisher 
Hear my poem, Kate, my dear ! 

In Bohemia, Kate, my dear — 

Lodgers in a musty flat 
On the top floor — living here 

Neighborless, and used to that, — 
Like a nest beneath the eaves, 
So our little home receives 
Only guests of chirping cheer, 
We'll be happy, Kate, my dear ! 

Under your north-light there, you 

At your easel, with a stain 
On your nose of Prussian blue, 
Paint your bits of shine and rain; 
With my feet thrown up at will 
At my littered window-sill, 
I write rhymes that ring as clear 
As your laughter, Kate, my dear! 

Puff my pipe, and stroke my hair — 
Bite my pencil-tip and gaze 

At you, mutely mooning there 
O'er your "Aprils" and your "Mays !"- 
78 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Equal inspiration in 

Dimples of your cheek and chin 

And the golden atmosphere 

Of your paintings, Kate, my dear ! 

Trying! Yes, at times it is, — 

To clink happy rhymes, and fling 
On the canvas scenes of bliss, 
When we are half famishing ! — 

When your "jersey" rips in spots, 
And your hat's "forget-me-nots" 
Have grown tousled, old and sere- 
It is trying, Kate, my dear ! 

But — as sure — some picture sells, 
And — sometimes — the poetry. — 
Bless us ! How the parrot yells 
His acclaims at you and me ! 
How we revel then in scenes 
Of high banqueting! — sardines — 
Salads — olives — and a sheer 
Pint of sherry, Kate, my dear ! 

Even now I cross your palm 

With this great round world of gold !- 
"Talking wild?" Perhaps I am — 
Then, this little five-year-old ! — 
Call it anything you will, 
So it lifts your face until 
I may kiss away that tear 
Ere it drowns me, Kate, my dear ! 



79 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
66 A Worn-Out Pencil 

WELLADAY! 
Here I lay 
You at rest — all worn away, 
O my pencil, to the tip 
Of our old companionship ! 

Memory 

Sighs to see 

What you are, and used to be, 
Looking backward to the time 
When you wrote your earliest rhyme !- 

When I sat 

Filing at 

Your first point, and dreaming that 

Your initial song should be 

Worthy of posterity. 

With regret 

I forget 

If the song be living yet, 

Yet remember, vaguely now, 

It was honest, anyhow. 

You have brought 

Me a thought — 

Truer yet was never taught, — 
That the silent song is best, 
And the unsung worthiest. 



80 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

So if I, 

When I die, 

May as uncomplainingly 

Drop aside as now you do, 
Write of me, as I of you : — 

Here lies one 

Who begun 

Life a-singing, heard of none; 

And he died, satisfied, 

With his dead songs by his side. 



67 Where Shall We Land? 

"Where shall we land you, sweet f" — Swinburne 

A LL listlessly we float 
•*- *-Out seaward in the boat 

That beareth Love. 
Our sails of purest snow 
Bend to the blue below 
And to the blue above. 
Where shall we land? 

We drift upon a tide 
Shoreless on every side, 
Save where the eye 
Of Fancy sweeps far lands 
Shelved slopingly with sands 
Of gold and porphyry. 

Where shall we land? 
81 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The fairy isles we see, 
Loom up so mistily — 

So vaguely fair, 
We do not care to break 
Fresh bubbles in our wake 

To bend our course for there. 
Where shall we land? 

The warm winds of the deep 
Have lulled our sails to sleep, 

And so we glide 
Careless of wave or wind, 
Or change of any kind, 

Or turn of any tide. 

Where shall we land? 

We droop our dreamy eyes 
Where our reflection lies 

Steeped in the sea, 
And, in an endless fit 
Of languor, smile on it 

And its sweet mimicry. 
Where shall we land? 

"Where shall we land?" God's grace! 
I know not any place 

So fair as this — 
Swung here between the blue 
Of sea and sky, with you 

To ask me, with a kiss, 

"Where shall we land?" 



82 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
68 The Rain 



r I ^HE rain! the rain! the rain! 

■*■ It gushed from the skies and streamed 
Like awful tears; and the sick man thought 

How pitiful it seemed ! 
And he turned his face away 

And stared at the wall again, 
His hopes nigh dead and his heart worn out. 

O the rain ! the rain ! the rain ! 



The rain ! the rain ! the rain ! 

And the broad stream brimmed the shores ; 
And ever the river crept over the reeds 

And the roots of the sycamores : 
A corpse swirled by in a drift 

Where the boat had snapt its chain — 
And a hoarse-voiced mother shrieked and raved. 

O the rain ! the rain ! the rain ! 

in 

The rain ! the rain ! the rain ! — 

Pouring, with never a pause, 
Over the fields and the green byways — 

How beautiful it was ! 
And the new-made man and wife 

Stood at the window-pane 
Like two glad children kept from School. — 

O the rain! the rain! the rain! 

88 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

69 The Drum 

r>i THE drum ! 

^^ There is some 

Intonation in thy grum 
Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, 
As we hear, 

Through the clear 

And unclouded atmosphere, 
Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear! 

There's a part 

Of the art 

Of thy music-throbbing heart 
That thrills a something in us that awakens with a start, 
And in rhyme 

With the chime 

And exactitude of time, 
Goes marching on to glory to thy melody sublime. 

And the guest 

Of the breast 

That thy rolling robs of rest 
Is a patriotic spirit as a Continental dressed; 
And he looms 

From the glooms 

Of a century of tombs, 
And the blood he spilled at Lexington in living beauty 
blooms. 

And his eyes 

Wear the guise 

Of a purpose pure and wise, 
As the love of them is lifted to a something in the skies 

84 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

That is bright 

Red and white, 

With a blur of starry light, 
As it laughs in silken ripples to the breezes day and night. 

There are deep 

Hushes creep 

O'er the pulses as they leap, 
As thy tumult, fainter growing, on the silence falls asleep, 
While the prayer 

Rising there 

Wills the sea and earth and air 
As a heritage to Freedom's sons and daughters everywhere. 

Then, with sound 

As profound 

As the thunderings resound, 
Come thy wild reverberations in a throe that shakes the 

ground, 
And a cry 

Flung on high, 

Like the flag it flutters by, 
Wings rapturously upward till it nestles in the sky. 

O the drum ! 

There is some 

Intonation in thy grum 
Monotony of utterance that strikes the spirit dumb, 
As we hear, 

Through the clear 

And unclouded atmosphere, 
Thy palpitating syllables roll in upon the ear ! 

35 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

70 Has She Forgotten? 

1 
T TAS she forgotten? On this very May 
*- *- We were to meet here, with the birds and bees, 
As on that Sabbath, underneath the trees 
We strayed among the tombs, and stripped away 
The vines from these old granites, cold and gray — 
And yet, indeed, not grim enough were they 
To stay our kisses, smiles, and ecstasies, 
Or closer voice-lost vows and rhapsodies. 
Has she forgotten — that the May has won 
Its promise? — that the bird-songs from the tree 
Are sprayed above the grasses as the sun 
Might jar the dazzling dew down showeringly? 
Has she forgotten life — love — every one — 
Has she forgotten me— forgotten me? 

11 
Low, low down in the violets I press 
My lips and whisper to her. Does she hear, 
And yet hold silence, though I call her dear, 
Just as of old, save for the tearfulness 
Of the clenched eyes, and the soul's vast distress? 
Has she forgotten thus the old caress 
That made our breath a quickened atmosphere 
That failed nigh unto swooning with the sheer 
Delight? Mine arms clutch now this earthen heap 
Sodden with tears that flow on ceaselessly 
As autumn rains the long, long, long nights weep 
In memory of days that used to be, — 
Has she forgotten these ? And, in her sleep, 
Has she forgotten me — forgotten me? 

86 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



To-night, against my pillow, with shut eyes, 

I mean to weld our faces — through the dense 

Incalculable darkness make pretense 

That she has risen from her reveries 

To mate her dreams with mine in marriages 

Of mellow palms, smooth faces, and tense ease 

Of every longing nerve of indolence, — 

Lift from the grave her quiet lips, and stun 

My senses with her kisses — drawl the glee 

Of her glad mouth, full blithe and tenderly, 

Across mine own, forgetful if is done 

The old love's awful dawn-time when said we, 

"To-day is ours !" . . . Ah, Heaven ! can it be 

She has forgotten me — forgotten me ! 



71 Moon-Drowned 

Jr P*WAS the height of the fete when we quitted the riot 

-** And quietly stole to the terrace alone, 
Where, pale as the lovers that ever swear by it, 

The moon it gazed down as a god from his throne : 
We stood there enchanted. — And O the delight of 

The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea, 
And the infinite skies of that opulent night of 

Purple and gold and ivory ! 

The lisp of the lip of the ripple just under — 

The half -awake nightingale's dream in the yews — 

Came up from the water, and down from the wonder 
Of shadowy foliage, drowsed with the dews, — 

87 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Unsteady the firefly's taper — unsteady 

The poise of the stars, and their light in the tide, 

As it struggled and writhed in caress of the eddy, 
As love in the billowy breast of a bride. 

The far-away lilt of the waltz rippled to us, 

And through us the exquisite thrill of the air : 
Like the scent of bruised bloom was her breath, and its dew 
was 

Not honeyer-sweet than her warm kisses were. 
We stood there enchanted. — And O the delight of 

The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea, 
And the infinite skies of that opulent night of 

Purple and gold and ivory! 



/<? At Noon — And Midnight 

TI^AR in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow 

■*- next his own 

The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed — yet he awake — 

alone! alone! 
In vain he courted sleep; — one thought would ever in his 

heart arise, — 
The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops 

to her eyes. 

Slowly on lifted arm he raised and listened. All was still 

as death; 
He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened yet, 

with bated breath: 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Still silently, as though he prayed, his lips moved lightly as 

she slept — 
For God was with him, and he laid his face with hers and 

wept. 



7J When My Dreams Come True 



TIT" HEN my dreams come true — when my dreams come 

* * true — 

Shall I lean from out my casement, in the starlight and the 

dew, 
To listen — smile and listen to the tinkle of the strings 
Of the sweet guitar my lover's fingers fondle, as he sings? 
And as the nude moon slowly, slowly shoulders into view, 
Shall I vanish from his vision — when my dreams come 

true? 

When my dreams come true — shall the simple gown I wear 
Be changed to softest satin, and my maiden-braided hair 
Be raveled into flossy mists of rarest, fairest gold, 
To be minted into kisses, more than any heart can hold? — 
Or "the summer of my tresses" shall my lover liken to 
"The fervor of his passion' , — when my dreams come true? 



When my dreams come true — I shall bide among the 

sheaves 
Of happy harvest meadows; and the grasses and the loaves 
Shall lift and lean between me and the splendor of the sun. 

80 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Till the noon swoons into twilight, and the gleaners 7 work 

is done — 
Save that yet an arm shall bind me, even as the reapers do 
The meanest sheaf of harvest — when my dreams come true. 

When my dreams come true ! when my dreams come true ! 
True love, in all simplicity, is fresh and pure as dew ; — 
The blossom in the blackest mold is kindlier to the eye 
Than any lily born of pride that looms against the sky: 
And so it is I know my heart will gladly welcome you, 
My lowliest of lovers, when my dreams come true. 



74 The Bat 



*T* HOU dread, uncanny thing, 
■*- With fuzzy breast and leathern wing, 
In mad, zigzagging flight, 
Notching the dusk, and buffeting 
The black cheeks of the night, 
With grim delight! 



II 

What witch's hand unhasps 
Thy keen claw-cornered wings 
From under the barn roof, and flings 
Thee forth, with chattering gasps, 

To scud the air, 
And nip the ladybug, and tear 
Her children's hearts out unaware? 
90 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



The glow-worm's glimmer, and the bright, 
Sad pulsings of the firefly's light, 

Are banquet-lights to thee. 
O less than bird, and worse than beast, 
Thou Devil's self, or brat, at least, 

Grate not thy teeth at me ! 



75 In the Dark 

(~\ IN the depths of midnight 
^-^ What fancies haunt the brain ! 
When even the sigh of the sleeper 
Sounds like a sob of pain. 

A sense of awe and of wonder 

I may never well define, — 
For the thoughts that come in the shadows 

Never come in the shine. 

The old clock down in the parlor 
Like a sleepless mourner grieves, 

And the seconds drip in the silence 
As the rain drips from the eaves. 

And I think of the hands that signal 
The hours there in the gloom, 

And wonder what angel watchers 
Wait in the darkened room. 

91 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And I think of the smiling faces 
That used to watch and wait, 

Till the click of the clock was answered 
By the click of the opening gate. — 

They are not there now in the evening- 
Morning or noon — not there; 

Yet I know that they keep their vigil, 
And wait for me Somewhere. 



76 At Broad Ripple 

X H, LUXURY ! Beyond the heat 
•*■ *And dust of town, with dangling feet 
Astride the rock below the dam, 
In the cool shadows where the calm 
Rests on the stream again, and all 
Is silent save the waterfall, — 
I bait my hook and cast my line, 
And feel the best of life is mine. 

No high ambition may I claim — 
I angle not for lordly game 
Of trout, or bass, or wary bream — 
A black perch reaches the extreme 
Of my desires; and "goggle-eyes" 
Are not a thing that I despise ; 
A sunfish, or a "chub," or "cat" — 
A "silverside" — yea, even that! 



92 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

In eloquent tranquillity 
The waters lisp and talk to me. 
Sometimes, far out, the surface breaks, 
As some proud bass an instant shakes 
His glittering armor in the sun, 
And romping ripples, one by one, 
Come dallying across the space 
Where undulates my smiling face. 

The river's story flowing by, 
Forever sweet to ear and eye, 
Forever tenderly begun — 
Forever new and never done. 
Thus lulled and sheltered in a shade 
Where never feverish cares invade, 
I bait my hook and cast my line, 
And feel the best of life is mine. 



93 



RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD 



77 The Days Gone By 

f~\ THE days gone by! O the days gone by! 

^-^ The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through 

the rye; 
The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail 
As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale ; 
When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the 

sky, 
And my happy heart brimmed over, in the days gone by. 

In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped 
By the honeysuckle tangles where the water-lilies dipped, 
And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the 

brink 
Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink, 
And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant's way- 
ward cry 
And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by. 

O the days gone by ! O the days gone by ! 
The music of the laughing lip, the lustre of the eye; 
The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin's magic ring — 
The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything, — 
When life was like a story holding neither sob nor sigh, 
In the golden olden glory of the days gone by. 

94 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
?8 Jack-In-The-Box 

[Grandfather, musing] 

T N childish days ! O memory, 

-■- You bring such curious things to me ! — 

Laughs to the lip — tears to the eye, 

In looking on the gifts that lie 

Like broken playthings scattered o'er 

Imagination's nursery floor ! 

Did these old hands once click the key 

That let "Jack's" box-lid upward fly, 

And that blear-eyed, fur-whiskered elf 

Leap, as though frightened at himself, 

And quiveringly lean and stare 

At me, his jailer, laughing there? 

A child then ! Now — I only know 

They call me very old; and so 

They will not let me have my way, — 

But uselessly I sit all day 

Here by the chimney- jamb, and poke 

The lazy fire, and smoke and smoke, 

And watch the wreaths swoop up the flue, 

And chuckle — ay, I often do — 

Seeing again, all vividly, 

Jack-in-the-box leap, as in glee 

To see how much he looks like me ! 

. . . They talk. I can't hear what they say- 
But I am glad, clean through and through 
Sometimes, in fancying that they 
Are saying, "Sweet, that fancy strays 
In age back to our childish days !" 
95 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

79 The Funny Little Fellozv 

>H^WAS a Funny Little Fellow 

■*■ Of the very purest type, 
For he had a heart as mellow 

As an apple overripe; 
And the brightest little twinkle 

When a funny thing occurred, 
And the lightest little tinkle 

Of a laugh you ever heard! 

His smile was like the glitter 

Of the sun in tropic lands, 
And his talk a sweeter twitter 

Than the swallow understands; 
Hear him sing — and tell a story — 

Snap a joke — ignite a pun, — 
'Twas a capture — rapture: — glory, 

And explosion — all in one ! 

Though he hadn't any money — 

That condiment which tends 
To make a fellow "honey" 

For the palate of his friends ; — 
Sweet simples he compounded — 

Sovereign antidotes for sin 
Or taint, — a faith unbounded 

That his friends were genuine. 

He wasn't honored, maybe — 

For his songs of praise were slim,- 

Yet I never knew a baby 

That, wouldn't crow for him; 

9 6 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I never knew a mother 

But urged a kindly claim 

Upon him as a brother, 

At the mention of his name. 

The sick have ceased their sighing, 

And have even found the grace 
Of a smile when they were dying 

As they looked upon his face ; 
And I've seen his eyes of laughter 

Melt in tears that only ran 
As though, swift-dancing after, 

Came the Funny Little Man. 

He laughed away the sorrow 

And he laughed away the gloom 
We are all so prone to borrow 

From the darkness of the tomb ; 
And he laughed across the ocean 

Of a happy life, and passed, 
With a laugh of glad emotion, 

Into Paradise at last. 

And I think the Angels knew him, 

And had gathered to await 
His coming, and run to him 

Through the widely opened Gate, 
With their faces gleaming sunny 

For his laughter-loving sake, 
And thinking, "What a funny 

Little Angel he will make!" 

97 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

80 Uncle Sidney's Views 

T HOLD that the true age of wisdom is when 

-*- We are boys and girls, and not women and men,- 

When as credulous children we know things because 

We believe them — however averse to the laws. 

It is faith, then, not science and reason, I say, 

That is genuine wisdom. — And would that to-day 

We, as then, were as wise and ineffably blest 

As to live, love and die, and trust God for the rest! 

So I simply deny the old notion, you know, 
That the wiser we get as the older we grow! — 
For in youth all we know we are certain of. — Now 
The greater our knowledge, the more we allow 
For sceptical margin. — And hence I regret 
That the world isn't flat, and the sun doesn't set, 
And we may not go creeping up home, when we die, 
Through the moon, like a round yellow hole in the sky. 



81 The Pixy People 

T T was just a very 
**■ Merry fairy dream! — 
All the woods were airy 

With the gloom and gleam ; 
Crickets in the clover 

Clattered clear and strong, 
And the bees droned over 
Their old honey-song! 

98 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

In the mossy passes, 
Saucy grasshoppers 

Leaped about the grasses 
And the thistle-burs; 

And the whispered chuckle 
Of the katydid 

Shook the honeysuckle- 
Blossoms where he hid. 

Through the breezy mazes 

Of the lazy June, 
Drowsy with the hazes 

Of the dreamy noon, 
Little Pixy people 

Winged above the walk, 
Pouring from the steeple 

Of a mullein-stalk. 

One — a gallant fellow — 

Evidently King, — 
Wore a plume of yellow 

In a jewelled ring 
On a pansy bonnet, 

Gold and white and blue, 
With the dew still on it, 

And the fragrance, too. 
• 
One — a dainty lady, — 

Evidently Queen — 
Wore a gown of shady 

Moonshine and green, 

99 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With a lace of gleaming 

Starlight that sent 
All the dewdrops dreaming 

Everywhere she went. 

One wore a waistcoat 

Of rose-leaves, out and in; 
And one wore a f aced-coat 

Of tiger-lily-skin; 
And one wore a neat coat 

Of palest galingale; 
And one a tiny street-coat, 

And one a swallow-tail. 

And Ho ! sang the King of them, 

And Hey ! sang the Queen ; 
And round and round the ring of them 

Went dancing o'er the green ; 
And Hey ! sang the Queen of them, 

And Ho ! sang the King — 
And all that I had seen of them 

— Wasn't anything! 

It was just a very 

Merry fairy dream !— 
All the woods were airy 

With the gloom and gleam; 
Crickets in the clover 

Clattered clear and strong, 
And the bees droned over 

Their old honey-song i 

ioo 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



D 



82 The Prayer Perfect 
k EAR Lord! kind Lord! 

Gracious Lord! I pray 
Thou wilt look on all I love, 

Tenderly to-day ! 
Weed their hearts of weariness; 

Scatter every care 
Down a wake of angel-wings 

Winnowing the air. 

Bring unto the sorrowing 

All release from pain; 
Let the lips of laughter 

Overflow again; 
And with all the needy 

O divide, I pray, 
This vast treasure of content 

That is mine to-day! 

83 Winter Fancies 

1 
"I I WINTER without 

And warmth within; 
The winds may shout 

And the storm begin ; 
The snows may pack 

At the window-pane, 
And the skies grow black, 

And the sun remain 
Hidden away 

The livelong day — 
But here — in here is the warmth of May! 
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Swoop your spitefullest 
Up the flue, 
Wild Winds— do ! 
What in the world do I care for you ? 
O delightfullest 
Weather of all, 
Howl and squall, 
And shake the trees till the last leaves fall ! 

in 

The joy one feels, 

In an easy-chair, 
Cocking his heels 

In the dancing air 
That wreathes the rim of a roaring stove 
Whose heat loves better than hearts can love, 
Will not permit 

The coldest day 
To drive away 
The fire in his blood, and the bliss of it ! 

IV 

Then blow, Winds, blow! 

And rave and shriek, 
And snarl and snow, 

Till your breath grows weak — 
While here in my room 

I'm as snugly shut 
As a glad little worm 

In the heart of a nut ! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

84 A Child's Home — Long Ago 

"p VEN as the gas-flames flicker to and fro, 
-■— ' The Old Man's wavering fancies leap and glow,- 
As o'er the vision, like a mirage, falls 
The old log cabin with its dingy walls, 
And crippled chimney with its crutch-like prop 
Beneath a sagging shoulder at the top : 
The coonskin battened fast on either side — 
The wisps of leaf-tobacco — "cut-and-dried" ; 
The yellow strands of quartered apples, hung 
In rich festoons that tangle in among 
The morning-glory vines that clamber o'er 
The little clapboard roof above the door : 
The old well-sweep that drops a courtesy 
To every thirsting soul so graciously, 
The stranger, as he drains the dripping gourd, 
Intuitively murmurs, "Thank the Lord !" 
Again through mists of memory arise 
The simple scenes of home before the eyes : — 
The happy mother, humming, with her wheel, 
The dear old melodies that used to steal 
So drowsily upon the summer air, 
The house-dog hid his bone, forgot his care, 
And nestled at her feet, to dream, perchance, 
Some cooling dream of winter-time romance : 
The square of sunshine through the open door 
That notched its edge across the puncheon floor, 
And made a golden coverlet whereon 
The god of slumber had a picture drawn 
Of Babyhood, in all the loveliness 
Of dimpled cheek and limb and linscy dross : 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The bough-filled fireplace, and the mantel wide, 
Its fire-scorched ankles stretched on either side, 
Where, perched upon its shoulders 'neath the joist, 
The old clock hiccoughed, harsh and husky-voiced, 
And snarled the premonition, dire and dread, 
When it should hammer Time upon the head : 
Tomatoes, red and yellow, in a row, 
Preserved not then for diet, but for show, — 
Like rare. and precious jewels in the rough 
Whose worth was not appraised at half enough : 
The jars of jelly, with their dusty tops; 
The bunch of pennyroyal ; the cordial drops ; 
The flask of camphor, and the vial of squills, 
The box of buttons, garden-seeds, and pills ; 
And, ending all the mantel's bric-a-brac, 
The old, time-honored "Family Almanack." 
And memory, with a mother's touch of love, 
Climbs with us to the dusky loft above, 
Where drowsily we trail our fingers in 
The mealy treasures of the harvest bin; 
And, feeling with our hands the open track, 
We pat the bag of barley on the back; 
And, groping onward through the mellow gloom, 
We catch the hidden apple's faint perfume, 
And, mingling with it, fragrant hints of pear 
And musky melon ripening somewhere. 
Again we stretch our limbs upon the bed 
Where first our simple childish prayers were said; 
And while, without, the gallant cricket trills 
A challenge to the solemn whippoorwills, 



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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, filing on the chorus with his glee, 
The katydid whets all the harmony 
To feather-edge of incoherent song, 
We drop asleep, and peacefully along 
The current of our dreams we glide away 
To the dim harbor of another day. 



<?5 The Boys 

A 1 THERE are they? — the friends of my childhood en- 
* 7 chanted — 

The clear, laughing eyes looking back in my own, 
And the warm, chubby fingers my palms have so wanted, 
As when we raced over 

Pink pastures of clover, 
And mocked the quail's whir and the bumblebee's drone? 

Have the breezes of time blown their blossomy faces 
Forever adrift down the years that are flown? 

Am I never to see them romp back to their places, 
Where over the meadow, 

In sunshine and shadow, 

The meadow-larks trill, and the bumblebees drone? 

Where are they? Ah! dim in the dust lies the clover; 

The whippoorwill's call has a sorrowful tone, 
And the dove's — I have wept at it over and over ; — 
I want the glad lustre 

Of youth, and the cluster 
Of faces asleep where the bumblebees drone! 

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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

86 The Land of Used-To-Be 

A ND where's the Land of Used-to-be, does little baby 
-*** wonder? 

Oh, we will clap a magic saddle over "Poppie's" knee 
And ride away around the world, and in and out and under 

The whole of all the golden sunny Summer-time and see. 

Leisurely and lazy-like we'll jostle on our journey, 
And let the pony bathe his hooves and cool them in the 
dew, 

As he sidles down the shady way, and lags along the ferny 
And green, grassy edges of the lane we travel through. 

And then we'll canter on to catch the bubble of the thistle 
As it bumps among the butterflies and glimmers down 
the sun, 

To leave us laughing, all content to hear the robin whistle 
Or guess what Katydid is saying little Katy's done. 

And pausing here a minute, where we hear the squirrel 
chuckle 
As he darts from out the underbrush and scampers up 
the tree, 
We will gather buds and locust-blossoms, leaves and honey- 
suckle, 
To wreathe around our foreheads, riding into Used- 
to-be ; — 

For here's the very rim of it that we go swinging over — 
Don't you hear the Fairy bugles, and the tinkle of the 
bells, 
And see the baby-bumblebees that tumble in the clover 
And dangle from the tilted pinks and tipsy pimpernels? 
1 06 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And don't you see the merry faces of the daffodillies, 
And the jolly Johnny- jump-ups, and the buttercups 
a-glee, 

And the low, lolling ripples ring around the water-lilies? — 
All greeting us with laughter, to the Land of Used-to-be ! 

And here among the blossoms of the blooming vines and 
grasses, 

With a haze forever hanging in the sky forever blue, 
And with a breeze from over seas to kiss us as it passes, 

We will romp around forever as the airy Elfins do ! 

For all the elves of earth and air are swarming here to- 
gether — 
The prankish Puck, King Oberon, and Queen Titania 
too; 
And dear old Mother Goose herself, as sunny as the 
weather, 
Comes dancing down the dewy walks to welcome me and 
you ! 



87 Mabel 

O WEET little face, so full of slumber now- 
^ Sweet lips unlifted now with any kiss — 
Sweet dimpled cheek and chin, and snowy brow,- 
What quietude is this? 

O speak ! Have you forgotten, yesterday, 

How gladly you came running to the gate 
To meet us in the old familiar way, 
So joyous — so elate — 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

So filled with wildest glee, yet so serene 

With innocence of song and childish chat, 
With all the dear caresses in between — 
Have you forgotten that? 

Have you forgotten, knowing gentler charms, 
The boisterous love of one you ran to greet 
When you last met, who caught you in his arms 
And kissed you, in the street? 

Not very many days have passed since then, 

And yet between that kiss and him there lies 
No pathway of return — unless again, 
In streets of Paradise, 

Your eager feet come twinkling down the gold 

Of some bright thoroughfare ethereal, 
To meet and greet him there just as of old. — 
Till then, farewell — farewell. 



88 Baby's Dying 

DABY'S dying, 
*-* Do not stir- 
Let her spirit lightly float 
Through the sighing 
Lips of her— 

Still the murmur in the throat; 
Let the moan of grief be curbed — 
Baby must not be disturbed! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Baby's dying, 

Do not stir — 

Let her pure life lightly swim 
Through the sighing 
Lips of her — 

Out from us and up to Him — 
Let her leave us with that smile — 
Kiss and miss her after while. 



89 Uninterpreted 

O UPINELY we lie in the grove's shady greenery, 
^ Gazing, all dreamy-eyed, up through the trees, — 
And as to the sight is the heavenly scenery, 
So to the hearing the sigh of the breeze. 

We catch but vague rifts of the blue through the wavering 

Boughs of the maples ; and, like undefined, 
The whispers and lisps of the leaves, faint and quavering, 

Meaningless falter and fall on the mind. 

The vine, with its beauty of blossom, goes rioting 

Up by the casement, as sweet to the eye 
As the trill of the robin is restful and quieting 

Heard in a drowse with the dawn in the sky. 

And yet we yearn on to learn more of the mystery — 

We see and we hear, but forever remain 
Mute, blind and deaf to the ultimate history 

Born of a rose or a patter of rain. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

po He Called Her In 

T T E called her in from me and shut the door. 
■*• ■*• And she so loved the sunshine and the sky ! — 

She loved them even better yet than I 

That ne'er knew dearth of them — my mother dead, 

Nature had nursed me in her lap instead : 

And I had grown a dark and eerie child 

That rarely smiled, 

Save when, shut all alone in grasses high, 

Looking straight up in God's great lonesome sky 

And coaxing Mother to smile back on me. 

'Twas lying thus, this fair girl suddenly 

Came on me, nestled in the fields beside 

A pleasant-seeming home, with doorway wide — 

The sunshine beating in upon the floor 

Like golden rain. — 

sweet, sweet face above me, turn again 
And leave me ! I had cried, but that an ache 
Within my throat so gripped it I could make 
No sound but a thick sobbing. Cowering so, 

1 felt her light hand laid 

Upon my hair — a touch that ne'er before 
Had tamed me thus, all soothed and unafraid — 
It seemed the touch the children used to know 
When Christ was here, so dear it was — so dear, — 
At once I loved her as the leaves love dew 
In midmost summer when the days are new. 
Barely an hour I knew her, yet a curl 
Of silken sunshine did she clip for me 
Out of the bright May-morning of her hair, 
And bound and gave it to me laughingly, 

no 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And caught my hands and called me "Little girl" 

Tiptoeing, as she spoke, to kiss me there ! 

And I stood dazed and dumb for very stress 

Of my great happiness. 

She plucked me by the gown, nor saw how mean 

The raiment — drew me with her everywhere : 

Smothered her face in tufts of grasses green : 

Put up her dainty hands and peeped between 

Her fingers at the blossoms — crooned and talked 

To them in strange, glad whispers, as we walked, — 

Said this one was her angel mother — this, 

Her baby-sister — come back, for a kiss, 

Clean from the Good- World! — smiled and kissed them, 

then 
Closed her soft eyes and kissed them o'er again. 
And so did she beguile me — so we played, — 
She was the dazzling Shine — I, the dark Shade — 
And we did mingle like to these, and thus, 
Together, made 

The perfect summer, pure and glorious. 
So blent we, till a harsh voice broke upon 
Our happiness. — She, startled as a fawn, 
Cried, "Oh, 'tis Father !" — all the blossoms gone 
From out her cheeks as those from out her grasp. — 
Harsher the voice came : — She could only gasp 
Affrightedly, "Good-bye! — good-bye! good-bye!" 
And lo, I stood alone, with that harsh cry 
Ringing a new and unknown sense of shame 
Through soul and frame, 

And, with wet eyes, repeating o'er and o'er, — 
"He called her in from me and shut the door !" 



Ill 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



He called her in from me and shut the door ! 

And I went wandering alone again — 

So lonely — O so very lonely then, 

I thought no little sallow star, alone 

In all a world of twilight, e'er had known 

Such utter loneliness. But that I wore 

Above my heart that gleaming tress of hair 

To lighten up the night of my despair, 

I think I might have groped into my grave 

Nor cared to wave 

The ferns above it with a breath of prayer. 

And how I hungered for the sweet, sweet face 

That bent above me in my hiding-place 

That day amid the grasses there beside 

Her pleasant home ! — "Her pleasant home !" I sighed, 

Remembering ; — then shut my teeth and feigned 

The harsh voice calling me, — then clinched my nails 

So deeply in my palms, the sharp wounds pained, 

And tossed my face toward heaven, as one who pales 

In splendid martyrdom, with soul serene, 

As near to God as high the guillotine. 

And I had envied her ? Not that — O no ! 

But I had longed for some sweet haven so ! — 

Wherein the tempest-beaten heart might ride 

Sometimes at peaceful anchor, and abide 

Where those that loved me touched me with their hands, 

And looked upon me with glad eyes, and slipped 

Smooth fingers o'er my brow, and lulled the strands 

Of my wild tresses, as they backward tipped 

My yearning face and kissed it satisfied. 

Then bitterly I murmured as before, — 

"He called her in from me and shut the door !" 

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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

He called her in from me and shut the door ! 

After long struggling with my pride and pain — 

A weary while it seemed, in which the more 

I held myself from her, the greater fain 

Was I to look upon her face again ; — 

At last — at last — half conscious where my feet 

Were faring, I stood waist-deep in the sweet 

Green grasses there where she 

First came to me. — 

The very blossoms she had plucked that day, 

And, at her fathers voice, had cast away, 

Around me lay, 

Still bright and blooming in these eyes of mine; 

And as I gathered each one eagerly, 

I pressed it to my lips and drank the wine 

Her kisses left there for the honey-bee. 

Then, after I had laid them with the tress 

Of her bright hair with lingering tenderness, 

I, turning, crept on to the hedge that bound 

Her pleasant-seeming home — but all around 

Was never sign of her ! — The windows all 

Were blinded; and I heard no rippling fall 

Of her glad laugh, nor any harsh voice call ; — 

But, clutching to the tangled grasses, caught 

A sound as though a strong man bowed his head 

And sobbed alone — unloved — uncomforted! — 

And then straightway before 

My tearless eyes, all vividly, was wrought 

A vision that is with me evermore: — 

A little girl that lies asleep, nor hears 

Nor heeds not any voice nor fall of tears. — 

And T sit singing o'er and o'er and o'er, — 

"God called her in from him and shut the door!" 

TT3 



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91 



Mother Goose 



D 1 



I EAR Mother Goose ! most motherly and dear 
Of all good mothers who have laps wherein 

We children nestle safest from all sin, — 
I cuddle to thy bosom, with no fear 
To there confess that though thy cap be queer, 

And thy curls gimlety, and thy cheeks thin, 

And though the winkered mole upon thy chin 
Tickles thy very nose-tip, — still to hear 

The jolly jingles of mine infancy 
Crooned by thee, makes mine eager arms, as now, 

To twine about thy neck, full tenderly 
Drawing the dear old face down, that thy brow 

May dip into my purest kiss, and be 

Crowned ever with the baby-love of me. 



92 



The All-Golden 



THROUGH every happy line I sing 
I feel the tonic of the Spring. 
The day is like an old-time face 
That gleams across some grassy place — 
An old-time face — an old-time chum 
Who rises from the grave to come 
And lure me back along the ways 
Of time's all-golden yesterdays. 
Sweet day ! to thus remind me of 
The truant boy I used to love — 
To set, once more, his finger-tips 
Against the blossom of his lips, 
And pipe for me the signal known 
By none but him and me alone ! 
114 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
ii 

I see, across the school-room floor, 

The shadow of the open door, 

And dancing dust and sunshine blent 

Slanting the way the morning went, 

And beckoning my thoughts afar 

Where reeds and running waters are ; 

Where amber-colored bayous glass 

The half-drown'd weeds and wisps of grass, 

Where sprawling frogs, in loveless key, 

Sing on and on incessantly. 

Against the green wood's dim expanse 

The cattail tilts its tufted lance, 

While on its tip — one might declare 

The white "snake-feeder", blossomed there ! 

in 

I catch my breath, as children do 
In woodland swings when life is new, 
And all the blood is warm as wine 
And tingles with a tang divine. 
My soul soars up the atmosphere 
And sings aloud where God can hear, 
And all my being leans intent 
To mark His smiling wonderment. 
O gracious dream, and gracious time, 
And gracious theme, and gracious rhyme — 
When buds of Spring begin to blow 
In blossoms that we used to know 
And lure us back along the ways 
Of time's all-golden yesterdays ! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
pj Longfellow's Love for the Children 

AWAKE, he loved their voices, 
■ And wove them into his rhyme ; 
And the music of their laughter 
Was with him all the time. 

Though he knew the tongues of nations, 
And their meanings all were dear, 

The prattle and lisp of a little child 
Was the sweetest for him to hear. 

94 The Little-Red-Apple Tree 

HTHE Little-red-apple Tree!— 

■** O the Little-red-apple Tree! 
When I was the little-est bit of a boy 

And you were a boy with me ! 
The bluebird's flight from the topmost boughs, 

And the boys up there — so high 
That we rocked over the roof of the house 

And whooped as the winds went by ! 

Hey! The Little-red-apple Tree! 

With the garden-beds below, 
And the old grape-arbor so welcomely 

Hiding the rake and hoe! 
Hiding, too, as the sun dripped through 

In spatters of wasted gold, 
Frank and Amy away from you 

And me in the days of old ! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The Little-red-apple Tree ! — 

In the edge of the garden-spot, 
Where the apples fell so lavishly 

Into the neighbor's lot; — 
So do I think of you alway, 

Brother of mine, as the tree,— 
Giving the ripest wealth of your love 

To the world as well as me. 

Ho ! The Little-red-apple Tree ! 

Sweet as its juiciest fruit 
Spanged on the palate spicily, 

And rolled o'er the tongue to boot, 
Is the memory still and the joy 

Of the Little-red-apple Tree, 
When I was the little-est bit of a boy 

And you were a boy with me ! 



95 The Way the Baby Slept 

I "HIS is the way the baby slept: 
-*- A mist of tresses backward thrown 
By quavering sighs where kisses crept 

With yearnings she had never known : 
The little hands were closely kept 

About a lily newly blown — 
And God was with her. And we wept. 
And this is the way the baby slept. 



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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

96 McFeeters' Fourth 

T T was needless to say 'twas a glorious day, 

■*■ And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way 

That our Forefathers had since the hour of the birth 

Of this most patriotic republic on earth! 

But 'twas justice, of course, to admit that the sight 

Of the old Stars-and-Stripes was a thing of delight 

In the eyes of a fellow, however he tried 

To look on the day with a dignified pride 

That meant not to brook any turbulent glee 

Or riotous flourish of loud jubilee ! 

So argued McFeeters, all grim and severe, 

Who the long night before, with a feeling of fear, 

Had slumbered but fitfully, hearing the swish 

Of the sky-rocket over his roof, with the wish 

That the boy-fiend who fired it were fast to the end 

Of the stick to for ever and ever ascend! 

Or to hopelessly ask why the boy with the horn 

And its horrible havoc had ever been born ! 

Or to wish, in his wakefulness, staring aghast, 

That this Fourth of July were as dead as the last ! 

So, yesterday morning, McFeeters arose, 
With a fire in his eyes, and a cold in his nose, 
And a guttural voice in appropriate key 
With a temper as gruff as a temper could be. 
He growled at the servant he met on the stair, 
Because he was whistling a national air, 
And he growled at the maid on the balcony, who 
Stood enrapt with the tune of "The Red-White-and-Blue" 
That a band was discoursing like mad in the street, 
With drumsticks that banged, and with cymbals that beat. 

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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And he growled at his wife, as she buttoned his vest, 
And applausively pinned a rosette on his breast 
Of the national colors, and lured from his purse 
Some change for the boys — for fire-crackers — or worse ; 
And she pointed with pride to a soldier in blue 
In a frame on the wall, and the colors there, too ; 
And he felt, as he looked on the features, the glow 
The painter found there twenty long years ago, 
And a passionate thrill in his breast, as he felt 
Instinctively round for the sword in his belt. 

What was it that hung like a mist o'er the room? — 
The tumult without — and the music — the boom 
Of the cannon — the blare of the bugle and fife? — 
No matter ! — McFeeters was kissing his wife, 
And laughing and crying and waving his hat 
Like a genuine soldier, and crazy, at that ! 
— Was it needless to say 'twas a glorious day 
And to boast of it all in that spread-eagle way 
That our Forefathers had since the hour of the birth 
Of this most patriotic republic on earth? 



o 



97 The Way the Baby Came 

THIS is the way the baby came : 
Out of the night as comes the dawn; 
Out of the embers as the flame ; 

Out of the bud the blossom on 
The apple-bough that blooms the same 
As in glad summers dead and gone — 
With a grace and beauty none could name — 
O this is the way the baby came! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
98 A Sleeping Beauty 



A N alien wind that blew and blew 
■*■ ** Over the fields where the ripe grain grew, 

Sending ripples of shine and shade 

That crept and crouched at her feet and played. 

The sea-like summer washed the moss 
Till the sun-drenched lilies hung like floss, 

Draping the throne of green and gold 
That lulled her there like a queen of old. 



Was it the hum of a bumblebee, 
Or the long-hushed bugle eerily 

Winding a call to the daring Prince 
Lost in the wood long ages since? — 









A dim old wood, with a palace rare 
Hidden away in its depths somewhere ! 

Was it the Princess, tranced in sleep, 
Awaiting her lover's touch to leap 

Into the arms that bent above? — 

To thaw his heart with the breath of love — 

And cloy his lips, through her waking tears, 
With the dead-ripe kiss of a hundred years ! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



An alien wind that blew and blew. — 
I had blurred my eyes as the artists do, 

Coaxing life to a half-sketched face, 
Or dreaming bloom for a grassy place. 

The bee droned on in an undertone ; 
And a shadow-bird trailed all alone 

Across the wheat, while a liquid cry 
Dripped from above, as it went by. 

What to her was the far-off whir 

Of the quail's quick wing or the chipmunk's chirr ?- 

What to her was the shade that slid 
Over the hill where the reapers hid? — 

Or what the hunter, with one foot raised, 
As he turned to go — yet, pausing, gazed? 



pp Exceeding All 

T ONG life's a lovely thing to know, 
-" With lovely health and wealth, forsooth, 
And lovely name and fame — But O 

The loveliness of Youth ! 



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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

ioo When Early March Seems Middle 
May 

\ \ THEN country roads begin to thaw 

* * In mottled spots of damp and dust, 
And fences by the margin draw- 
Along the frosty crust 
Their graphic silhouettes, I say, 
The Spring is coming round this way. 

When morning-time is bright with sun 
And keen with wind, and both confuse 

The dancing, glancing eyes of one 
With tears that ooze and ooze — 
And nose-tips weep as well as they, 
The Spring is coming round this way. 

When suddenly some shadow-bird 
Goes wavering beneath the gaze, 

And through the hedge the moan is heard 
Of kine that fain would graze 
In grasses new, I smile and say, 
The Spring is coming round this way. 

When knotted horse-tails are untied, 
And teamsters whistle here and there, 

And clumsy mitts are laid aside 
And choppers' hands are bare, 
And chips are thick where children play, 
The Spring is coming round this way. 

When through the twigs the farmer tramps, 

And troughs are chunked beneath the trees, 
And fragrant hints of sugar-camps 
Astray in every breeze, — 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When early March seems middle May, 
The Spring is coming round this way. 

When coughs are changed to laughs, and when 
Our frowns melt into smiles of glee, 

And all our blood thaws out again 
In streams of ecstasy, 
And poets wreak their roundelay, 
The Spring is coming round this way. 



ioi A Sudden Shower 

O AREFOOTED boys scud up the street 
■^ Or scurry under sheltering sheds ; 
And school-girl faces, pale and sweet, 
Gleam from the shawls about their heads. 

Doors bang; and mother-voices call 
From alien homes ; and rusty gates 

Are slammed; and high above it all, 
The thunder grim reverberates. 

And then, abrupt, — the rain ! the rain ! — 
The earth lies gasping; and the eyes 

Behind the streaming window-pane 
Smile at the trouble of the skies. 

The highway smokes; sharp echoes ring; 

The cattle bawl and cow-bells clank ; 
And into town comes galloping 

The farmer's horse, with steaming flank. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The swallow dips beneath the eaves 

And flirts his plumes and folds his wings; 

And under the Catawba leaves 
The caterpillar curls and clings. 

The bumblebee is pelted down 

The wet stem of the hollyhock; 
And sullenly, in spattered brown, 

The cricket leaps the garden-walk. 

Within, the baby claps his hands 

And crows with rapture strange and vague ; 
Without, beneath the rose-bush stands 

A dripping rooster on one leg. 



102 The Song of Yesterday 



"OUT yesterday 

-"-* I looked away 

O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay 

In golden blots, 

Inlaid with spots 

Of shade and wild forget-me-nots. 

My head was fair 
With flaxen hair, 

And fragrant breezes, faint and rare, 
And, warm with drouth 
From out the south, 
Blew all my curls across my mouth. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, cool and sweet, 

My naked feet 

Found dewy pathways through the wheat; 

And out again 

Where, down the lane, 

The dust was dimpled with the rain. 



II 



But yesterday! — 

Adream, astray, 

From morning's red to evening's gray, 

O'er dales and hills 

Of daffodills 

And lorn sweet-fluting whippoorwills. 

1 knew nor cares 

Nor tears nor prayers — 

A mortal god, crowned unawares 

With sunset — and 

A sceptre-wand 

Of apple-blossoms in my hand ! 

The dewy blue 

Of twilight grew 

To purple, with a star or two 

Whose lisping rays 

Failed in the blaze 

Of sudden fireflies through the haze. 



125 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



But yesterday 

I heard the lay 

Of summer birds, when I, as they 

With breast and wing, 

All quivering 

With life and love, could only sing. 

My head was leant 

Where, with it, blent 

A maiden's, o'er her instrument ; 

While all the night, 

From vale to height, 

Was filled with echoes of delight. 

And all our dreams 

Were lit with gleams 

Of that lost land of reedy streams, 

Along whose brim 

Forever swim 

Pan's lilies, laughing up at him. 



IV 



But yesterday! . . . 

O blooms of May, 

And summer roses — where away? 

O stars above; 

And lips of love, 

And all the honeyed sweets thereof !- 



12$ 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O lad and lass, 

And orchard pass, 

And briered lane, and daisied grass ! 

O gleam and gloom, 

And woodland bloom, 

And breezy breaths of all perfume !— 

i 
No more for me 
Or mine shall be 

Thy raptures — save in memory, — 
No more — no more — 
Till through the Door 
Of Glory gleam the days of yore. 



103 Song — For November 

\ \ 7"HILE skies glint bright with bluest light 

* * Through clouds that race o'er field and town, 
And leaves go dancing left and right, 

And orchard apples tumble down ; 
While school-girls sweet, in lane or street, 

Lean 'gainst the wind and feel and hear 
Its glad heart like a lover's beat, — 

So reigns the rapture of the year. 

Then ho! and hey! and whoop-hooray! 

Though winter clouds be looming, 
Remember a November day 
Is merrier than mildest May 

With all her blossoms blooming. 
127 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

While birds in scattered flight are blown 

Aloft and lost in bosky mist, 
And truant boys scud home alone 

'Neath skies of gold and amethyst; 
While twilight falls, and echo calls 

Across the haunted atmosphere, 
With low, sweet laughs at intervals, — 

So reigns the rapture of the year. 

Then ho! and hey! and whoop-hooray! 

Though winter clouds be looming, 
Remember a November day 
Is merrier than mildest May 

With all her blossoms blooming. 



104 On the Sunny Side 

T T I and whoop-hooray, boys ! 
-*- -*■ Sing a song of cheer ! 
Here's a holiday, boys, 

Lasting half a year ! 
Round the world, and half is 

Shadow we have tried; 
Now we're where the laugh is,— 

On the sunny side! 

Pigeons coo and mutter, 
Strutting high aloof 

Where the sunbeams flutter 
Through the stable roof. 
128 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Hear the chickens cheep, boys, 
And the hen with pride 

Clucking them to sleep, boys, 
On the sunny side! 

Hear the clacking guinea; 

Hear the cattle moo ; 
Hear the horses whinny, 

Looking out at you ! 
On the hitching-block, boys, 

Grandly satisfied, 
See the old peacock, boys, 

On the sunny side! 

Robins in the peach-tree; 

Bluebirds in the pear; 
Blossoms over each tree 

In the orchard there ! 
All the world's in joy, boys, 

Glad and glorified 
As a romping boy, boys, 

On the sunny side ! 

Where's a heart as mellow — 

Where's a soul as free — 
Where is any fellow 

We would rather be? 
Just ourselves or none, boys, 

World around and wide, 
Laughing in the sun, boys, 

On the sunny side ! 

129 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
105 His Christmas Sled 



T WATCH him, with his Christmas sled; 

■*■ He hitches on behind 

A passing sleigh, with glad hooray, 

And whistles down the wind; 
He hears the horses champ their bits, 

And bells that jingle-jingle — 
You Woolly Cap ! you Scarlet Mitts ! 

You miniature "Kriss Kringle!" 

I almost catch your secret joy — 

Your chucklings of delight, 
The while you whiz where glory is 

Eternally in sight ! 
With you I catch my breath, as swift 

Your jaunty sled goes gliding 
O'er glassy track and shallow drift, 

As I behind were riding ! 



He winks at twinklings of the frost, 

And on his airy race, 
Its tingles beat to redder heat 

The rapture of his face : — 
The colder, keener is the air, 

The less he cares a feather. 
But, there! he's gone! and I gaze on 

The wintriest of weather! 
130 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Ah, Boy! still speeding o'er the track 

Where none returns again, 
To sigh for you, or cry for you, 

Or die for you were vain. — 
And so, speed on! the while I pray 

All nipping frosts forsake you — 
Ride still ahead of grief, but may 

All glad things overtake you ! 



1 06 The Rider of the Knee 

TZ NIGHTLY Rider of the Knee 
-*-*" Of Proud-prancing Unclery! 
Gaily mount, and wave the sign 
Of that mastery of thine. 



Pat thy steed and turn him free, 
Knightly Rider of the Knee ! 
Sit thy charger as a throne — 
Lash him with thy laugh alone: 

Sting him only with the spur 
Of such wit as may occur, 
Knightly Rider of the Knee, 
In thy shriek of ecstasy. 

Would, as now, we might endure, 
'Twain as one — thou miniature 
Ruler, at the rein of me — 
Knightly Rider of the Knee ! 
131 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
ioy Dusk-Song — The Beetle 

r I ^HE shrilling locust slowly sheathes 

-*• His dagger-voice, and creeps away 
Beneath the brooding leaves where breathes 

The zephyr of the dying day : 
One naked star has waded through 

The purple shallows of the night, 
And faltering as falls the dew 

It drips its misty light. 

O'er garden blooms, 

On tides of musk, 
The beetle booms adown the glooms 

And bumps along the dusk. 

The katydid is rasping at 

The silence from the tangled broom : 
On drunken wings the flitting bat 

Goes staggering athwart the gloom; 
The toadstool bulges through the weeds, 

And lavishly to left and right 
The fireflies, like golden seeds, 

Are sown about the night. 

O'er slumbrous blooms, 

On floods of musk, 
The beetle booms adown the glooms 

And bumps along the dusk. 

The primrose flares its baby-hands 
Wide open, as the empty moon, 

Slow lifted from the underlands, 
Drifts up the azure-arched lagoon; 
132 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The shadows on the garden walk 
Are frayed with rifts of silver light; 

And, trickling down the poppy-stalk, 
The dewdrop streaks the night. 

O'er folded blooms, 

On swirls of musk, 
The beetle booms adown the glooms 

And bumps along the dusk. 



108 Billy Could Ride 



T) ILLY was born for a horse's back ! — 
**-* That's what Grandfather used to say : — 
He'd seen him in dresses, a-many a day, 
On a two-year-old, in the old barn-lot, 
Prancing around, with the bridle slack, 
And his two little sunburnt legs outshot 
So straight from the saddle-seat you'd swear 
A spirit-level had plumbed him there ! 
And all the neighbors that passed the place 
Would just haul up in the road and stare 
To see the little chap's father boost 
The boy up there on his favorite roost, 
To canter off, with a laughing face. — 
Put him up there, he was satisfied — 
And O the way that Billy could ride! 



133 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
ii 

At celebration or barbecue — 

And Billy, a boy of fifteen years — 

Couldn't he cut his didoes there? — 

What else would you expect him to, 

On his little mettlesome chestnut mare, 

With her slender neck, and her pointed ears, 

And the four little devilish hooves of hers? 

The "delegation" moved too slow 

For the time that Billy wanted to go ! 

And to see him dashing out of the line 

At the edge of the road and down the side 

Of the long procession, all laws defied, 

And the fife and drums, was a sight divine 

To the girls, in their white-and-spangled pride, 

Wearily waving their scarfs about 

In the great "Big Wagon," all gilt without 

And jolt within, as they lumbered on 

Into the town where Billy had gone 

An hour ahead, like a knightly guide — 

O but the way that Billy could ride ! 



hi 



'Billy can ride! Oh, Billy can ride! 
But what on earth can he do beside ?" 
That's what the farmers used to say, 
As time went by a year at a stride, 
And Billy was twenty if he was a day! 
And many a wise old father's foot 
Was put right down where it should be put, 
134 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

While many a dutiful daughter sighed 
In vain for one more glorious ride 
With the gallant Billy, who none the less 
Smiled at the old man's selfishness 
And kissed his daughter, and rode away, — 
Touched his horse in the flank — and zip pi— 
Talk about horses and horsemanship ! — 
Folks stared after him just wild-eyed. . . , 
Oomhl the way that Billy could ride! 



109 Honey Dripping From the Comb 

T TOW slight a thing may set one's fancy drifting 
-*■ -*■ Upon the dead sea of the Past ! — A view — 
Sometimes an odor — or a rooster lifting 
A far-off "Ooh! ooh-ooh!" 

And suddenly we find ourselves astray 

In some wood's-pasture of the Long Ago — 
Or idly dream again upon a day 

Of rest we used to know. 

I bit an apple but a moment since — 

A wilted apple that the worm had spurned, — 
Yet hidden in the taste were happy hints 
Of good old days returned. — 

And so my heart, like some enraptured lute, 

Tinkles a tune so tender and complete, 
God's blessing must be resting on the fruit — 
So bitter, yet so sweet ! 
135 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
no Time of Clearer Twitterings 



r I^IME of crisp and tawny leaves, 

-** And of tarnished harvest sheaves, 
And of dusty grasses— weeds — 
Thistles, with their tufted seeds 
Voyaging the Autumn breeze 
Like as fairy argosies : 
Time of quicker flash of wings, 
And of clearer twitterings 
In the grove or deeper shade 
Of the tangled everglade, — 
Where the spotted water-snake 
Coils him in the sunniest brake; 
And the bittern, as in fright, 
Darts, in sudden, slanting flight, 
Southward, while the startled crane 
Films his eyes in dreams again. 



Down along the dwindled creek 
We go loitering. We speak 
Only with old questionings 
Of the dear remembered things 
Of the days of long ago, 
When the stream seemed thus and so 
In our boyish eyes : — The bank 
Greener then, through rank on rank 
Of the mottled sycamores, 
Touching tops across the shores : 
136 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Here, the hazel thicket stood — 
There, the almost pathless wood 
Where the shellbark hickory-tree 
Rained its wealth on you and me. 
Autumn ! as you loved us then, 
Take us to your heart again! 

in 

Season halest of the year 
How the zestful atmosphere 
Nettles blood and brain and smites 
Into life the old delights 
We have wasted in our youth, 
And our graver years, forsooth ! 
How again the boyish heart 
Leaps to see the chipmunk start 
From the brush and sleek the sun's 
Very beauty, as he runs ! 
How again a subtle hint 
Of crushed pennyroyal or mint 
Sends us on our knees, as when 
We were truant boys of ten — 
Brown marauders of the wood, 
Merrier than Robin Hood ! 



IV 



Ah ! will any minstrel say, 
In his sweetest roundelay, 
What is sweeter, after all, 
Than black haws, in early Fall? — 
137 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Fruit so sweet the frost first sat, 
Dainty-toothed, and nibbled at! 
And will any poet sing 
Of a lusher, richer thing 
Than a ripe May-apple, rolled 
Like a pulpy lump of gold 
Under thumb and finger-tips, 
And poured molten through the lips? 
Go, ye bards of classic themes, 
Pipe your songs by classic streams ! 
I would twang the redbird's wings 
In the thicket while he sings ! 



in Curly Locks 

SOURLY Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine? 

^-^ Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the 

swine, — 
But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, 
And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream. 

Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine? 
The throb of my heart is in every line, 
And the pulse of a passion as airy and glad 
In its musical beat as the little Prince had ! 

Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine! — 
O I'll dapple thy hands with these kisses of mine 
Till the pink of the nail of each finger shall be 
As a little pet blush in full blossom for me. 

138 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, 
And thou shalt have fabric as fair as a dream, — 
The red of my veins, and the white of my love, 
And the gold of my joy for the braiding thereof. 

And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream 
From a service of silver, with jewels agleam, — 
At thy feet will I bide, at thy beck will I rise, 
And twinkle' my soul in the night of thine eyes ! 

Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine? 

Thou shalt not wash the dishes, nor yet feed the swine, - 

But sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, 

And feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream. 



112 Pansies 

T) ANSIES ! Pansies ! How I love you, pansies ! 

-*• Jaunty-faced, laughing-lipped and dewy-eyed with 

glee; 
Would my song but blossom in little five-leaf stanzas 
As delicate in fancies 
As your beauty is to me ! 



But my eyes shall smile on you, and my hands infold you, 

Pet, caress, and lift you to the lips that love you so, 
That, shut ever in the years that may mildew or mould you, 
My fancy shall behold you 
Fair as in the long ago. 



139 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

113 The Brook-Song 

T ITTLE brook ! Little brook ! 
■*—* You have such a happy look — 

Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and curve and 
crook — 
And your ripples, one and one, 
Reach each other's hands and run 

Like laughing little children in the sun! 

Little brook, sing to me : 
Sing about a bumblebee 
That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled mumblingly, 
Because he wet the film 
Of his wings, and had to swim, 
While the water-bugs raced round and laughed at 
him! 

Little brook — sing a song 
Of a leaf that sailed along 
Down the golden-braided centre of your current swift and 
strong, 
And a dragon-fly that lit 
On the tilting rim of it, 
And rode away and wasn't scared a bit. 

And sing — how oft in glee 
Came a truant boy like me, 
Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting melody, 
Till the gurgle and refrain 
Of your music in his brain 
Wrought a happiness as keen to him as pain. 
140 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Little brook — laugh and leap ! 
Do not let the dreamer weep : 
Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in softest 
sleep ; 
And then sing soft and low 
Through his dreams of long ago — 

Sing back to him the rest he used to know ! 



114 A Nonsense Rhyme 

"DINGLETY-JING! 
-^^ And what will we sing? 
Some little crinkety-crankety thing 
That rhymes and chimes, 
And skips, sometimes, 
As though wound up with a kink in the spring. 



Grunkety-krung ! 
And chunkety-plung ! 
Sing the song that the bullfrog sung, — 
A song of the soul 
Of a mad tadpole 
That met his fate in a leaky bowl : 
And it's O for the first false wiggle he made 
In a sea of pale pink lemonade ! 
And it's O for the thirst 

Within him pent, 
And the hopes that burst 
As his reason went — 
When his strong arm failed and his Strength was spent ! 

141 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Sing, O sing 
Of the things that cling, 
And the claws that clutch and the fangs that sting — 
Till the tadpole's tongue 
And his tail upflung 
Quavered and failed with a song unsung ! 

O the dank despair in the rank morass, 
Where the crawfish crouch in the cringing grass, 
And the long limp rune of the loon wails on 
For the mad, sad soul 
Of a bad tadpole 

Forever lost and gone ! 

Jinglety-jee! 
And now we'll see 
What the last of the lay shall be, 

As the dismal tip of the tune, O friends, 
Swoons away and the long tale ends. 
And it's O and alack ! 

For the tangled legs 
And the spangled back 

Of the green grig's eggs, 
And the unstrung strain 
Of the strange refrain 
That the winds wind up like a strand of rain ! 

And it's O, 
Also, 
For the ears wreathed low, 
Like a laurel-wreath on the lifted brow 
Of the frog that chants of the why and how, 



142 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the wherefore too, and the thus and so 
Of the wail he weaves in a woof of woe ! 
Twangle, then, with your wrangling strings, 
The tinkling links of a thousand things ! 
And clang the pang of a maddening moan 
Till the Echo, hid in a land unknown, 

Shall leap as he hears, and hoot and hoo 
Like the wretched wraith of a Whoopty-Doo ! 



115 The Dream of the Little Princess 

v IpWAS a curious dream, good sooth! — 
-** The dream of The Little Princess; 

It seemed a dream, yet a truth, 

Long years ago in her youth. — 
It came as a dream — no less 
It was not a dream, she says. 

(She is singing and saying things 

Musical as the wile 
Of the eerie quaverings 
That drip from the grieved strings 

Of her lute. — We weep or smile 

Even as she, meanwhile.) 

In a day, long dead and gone, 

When her castle-turrets threw 

Their long, sharp shadows on 

The sward like lances, — wan 
And lone, she strayed into 
Strange grounds where lilies grew. 
1 l.> 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

There, late in the afternoon, 

As she sate in the terrace shade, 

Rav'ling a half -spun tune 

From a lute like a wee new-moon, — 
High off was a bugle played, 
And a sound as of steeds that neighed. 

And the lute fell from her hands, 

As her eyes raised, half in doubt, 
To the arch of the azure lands 
Where lo ! with the fluttering strands 
Of a rainbow reined about 
His wrist, rode a horseman out. 

And The Little Princess was stirred 
No less at his steeds than him ; — 

A jet-black span of them gird 

In advance, he bestrode the third ; 

And the troop of them seemed to swim 
The skies as the Seraphim. 

Wingless they were, yet so 

Upborne in their wondrous flight — 

As their master bade them go, 

They dwindled on high ; or lo ! 

They curved from their heavenmost height 
And swooped to her level sight. 

And the eyes of The Little Princess 
Grow O so bright as the chants 

Of the horseman's courtliness, — 

Saluting her low — Ah, yes ! 

And lifting a voice that haunts 
Her own song's weird romance. 
144 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

For (she sings) at last he swept 

As near to her as the tips 
Of the lilies, that whitely slept, 
As he leaned o'er one and wept 

And touched it with his lips — 

Sweeter than honey-drips! 

And she keeps the lily yet — 

As the horseman bade (she says) 

As he launched, with a wild curvet, 

His steeds toward the far sunset, 
Till gulfed in its gorgeousness 
And lost to The Little Princess : 

But O, my master sweet! 

He is coming again! (she sings) 
My Prince of the Coursers fleet, 
. With his bugle's echoings, 
And the breath of his voice for the wings 
Of the sandals of his feet! 



116 The Way the Baby Woke 

AND this is the way the baby woke : 
"*■ *■ As when in deepest drops of dew 
The shine and shadows sink and soak, 

The sweet eyes glimmered through and through ; 
And eddyings and dimples broke 

About the lips, and no one knew 
Or could divine the words they spoke — 
And this is the way the baby woke. 
145 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

11/ The Circus-Day Parade 

/^\H! the Circus-Day Parade! How the bugles played 

^-^ and played ! 

And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and 

neighed, 
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time 
Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime ! 

How the grand band-wagon shone with a splendor all its 

own, 
And glittered with a glory that our dreams had never 

known ! 
And how the boys behind, high and low of every kind, 
Marched in unconscious capture, with a rapture undefined ! 

How the horsemen, two and two, with their plumes of 

white and blue 
And crimson, gold and purple, nodding by at me and you, 
Waved the banners that they bore, as the knights in days of 

yore, 
Till our glad eyes gleamed and glistened like the spangles 

that they wore ! 

How the graceless-graceful stride of the elephant was eyed, 
And the capers of the little horse that cantered at his side ! 
How the shambling camels, tame to the plaudits of their 

fame, 
With listless eyes came silent, masticating as they came. 

How the cages jolted past, with each wagon battened fast, 
And the mystery within it only hinted of at last 
From the little grated square in the rear, and nosing there 
The snout of some strange animal that sniffed the outer 
air! 

f46 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, last of all, The Clown, making mirth for all the town, 
With his lips curved ever upward and his eyebrows ever 

down, 
And his chief attention paid to the little mule that played 
A tattoo on the dash-board with his heels, in the Parade. 

Oh ! the Circus-Day Parade ! How the bugles played and 

played ! 
And how the glossy horses tossed their flossy manes and 

neighed, 
As the rattle and the rhyme of the tenor-drummer's time 
Filled all the hungry hearts of us with melody sublime ! 



L 1 



118 Little Girly-Girl 

ITTLE Girly-Girl, of you 

Still forever I am dreaming. — 
Laughing eyes of limpid blue — 

Tresses glimmering and gleaming 
Like glad waters running over 
Shelving shallows, rimmed with clover, 
Trembling where the eddies whirl, 
Gurgling, "Little Girly-Girl!'' 

For your name it came to me 

Down the brink of brooks that brought it 
Out of Paradise — and we — 

Love and I — wc, leaning, caught it 
From the ripples romping nigh us, 
And the bubbles bumping by us 

Over shoals of pebbled pea^l, 

Lilting, "Little Girly-Girl !" 
M7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

That was long and long ago, 

But in memory the tender 
Winds of summer weather blow, 

And the roses burst in splendor; 
And the meadow's grassy billows 
Break in blossoms round the willows 

Where the currents curve and curl, 

Calling, "Little Girly-Girl !" 



up The Boy-Friend 

/^"^ LARENCE, my boy-friend, hale and strong ! 
^■^ O he is as jolly as he is young; 
And all of the laughs of the lyre belong 
To the boy all unsung : • 



So I want to sing something in his behalf — 
To clang some chords, for the good it is 

To know he is near, and to have the laugh 
Of that wholesome voice of his. 

I want to tell him in gentler ways 

Than prose may do, that the arms of rhyme 
Warm and tender with tuneful praise, 

Are about him all the time. 

I want him to know that the quietest nights 
We have passed together are yet with me, 

Roistering over the old delights 
That were born of his company. 
148 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I want him to know how my soul esteems 

The fairy stories of Andersen, 
And the glad translations of all the themes 

Of the hearts of boyish men. 

Want him to know that my fancy flows, 
With the lilt of a dear old-fashioned tune, 

Through "Lewis Carroll's" poemly prose, 
And the tale of "The Bold Dragoon." 

O this is the Prince that I would sing — 
Would drape and garnish in velvet line, 

Since courtlier far than any king 
Is this brave boy-friend of mine. 



120 The Old, Old Wish 

T AST night, in some lost mood of meditation, 
-*"* The while my dreamy vision ranged the far 
Unfathomable arches of creation, 
I saw a falling star: 

And as my eyes swept round the path it embered 

With the swift-dying glory of its glow, 
With sudden intuition I remembered, 
A wish of long ago — 

A wish that, were it made — so ran the fancy 

Of credulous young lover and of lass — 
As fell a star, by some strange necromancy, 
Would surely come to pass. 
149 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, of itself, the wish, reiterated 

A thousand times in youth, flashed o'er my brain, 
And, like the star, as soon obliterated, 
Dropped into night again. 

For my old heart had wished for the unending 

Devotion of a little maid of nine — 
And that the girl-heart, with the woman's blending, 
Might be forever mine. 

And so it was, with eyelids raised, and weighty 

With ripest clusterings of sorrow's dew, 
I cried aloud through heaven: "O little Katie! 
When will my wish come true ?" 



121 A Mother-Song 

1\/r OTHER, O mother! forever I cry for you, 
-*-*-*■ Sing the old song I may never forget; 
Even in slumber I murmur and sigh for you. — 
Mother, O Mother, 

Sing low, "Little brother, 
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 

Mother, O mother! the years are so lonely, 

Filled but with weariness, doubt and regret ! 
Can't you come back to me — for to-night only, 
Mother, my mother, 

And sing, "Little brother, . 
Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 
150 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Mother, O mother ! of old I had never 
One wish denied me, nor trouble to fret; 

Now — must I cry out all vainly forever, — 
Mother, sweet mother, 

O sing, "Little brother, 

Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 

Mother, O mother ! must longing and sorrow 
Leave me in darkness, with eyes ever wet, 

And never the hope of a meeting to-morrow? 
Answer me, mother, 

And sing, "Little brother, 

Sleep, for thy mother bends over thee yet !" 



122 With the Current 

Ty AREST mood of all the year ! 
^^ Aimless, idle, and content — 
Sky and wave and atmosphere 
Wholly indolent. 



Little daughter, loose the band 

From your tresses — let them pour 
Shadow-like o'er arm and hand 
Idling at the oar. 

Low and clear, and pure and deep, 

Ripples of the river sing — 
Water-lilies, half asleep, 

Drowsed with listening: 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Tremulous reflex of skies — 

Skies above and skies below, — > 
Paradise and Paradise 
Blending even so ! 

Blossoms with their leaves unrolled 

Laughingly, as they were lips 
Cleft with ruddy beaten gold 
Tongues of pollen-tips. 

Rush and reed, and thorn and vine, 

Clumped with grasses lithe and tall- 
With a web of summer-shine 
Woven round it all. 

Back and forth, and to and fro — 

Flashing scale and wing as one, — 
Dragon-flies that come and go, 
Shuttled by the sun. 

Fairy lilts and lullabies, 

Fine as fantasy conceives, — 
Echoes wrought of cricket-cries 
Sifted through the leaves. 

O'er the rose, with drowsy buzz, 

Hangs the bee, and stays his kiss, 
Even as my fancy does, 
Gypsy, over this. 



152 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Let us both be children — share 

Youth's glad voyage night and day, 
Drift adown it, half aware, 
Anywhere we may. — 

Drift and curve and deviate, 

Veer and eddy, float and flow, 
Waver, swerve and undulate, 
As the bubbles go. 



123 The Hunter Boy 

T_J UNTER Boy of Hazelwood— 
-■* -*• Happier than Robin Hood! 
Dance across the green, and stand 
Suddenly, with lifted hand 
Shading eager eyes, and be 
Thus content to capture me ! — 
Cease thy quest for wilder prey 
Than my willing heart to-day ! 

Hunter Boy! with belt and bow, 
Bide with me, or let me go, 
An thou wilt, in wake of thee, 
Questing for my mine infancy! 
With thy glad face in the sun, 
Let thy laughter overrun 
Thy ripe lips, until mine own 
Answer, ringing, tone for tone ! 



153 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O my Hunter ! tilt the cup 
Of thy silver bugle up, 
And like wine pour out for me 
All its limpid melody! 
Pout thy happy lips and blare 
Music's kisses everywhere — 
Whiff o'er forest, field and town, 
Tufts of tune like thistle-down ! 
O to go, as once I could, 
Hunter Boy of Hazelwood ! 



124. The Whit her azuays 

(Set Sail, October 15, 1890) 

HP HE Whitheraways ! — That's what I'll have to call 

*- You — sailing off, with never a word at all 
Of parting! — sailing 'way across the sea, 
With never one good-bye to me — to Me ! 

Sailing away from me, with no farewell ! — 
Ah, Parker Hitt and sister Muriel — 
And Rodney, too, and little Laurance — all 
Sailing away — just as the leaves, this Fall ! 

Well, then, I too shall sail on cheerily 

As now you all go sailing o'er the sea : 

I've other little friends with me on shore — 

Though they but make me yearn for you the more ! 



154 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And so, sometime, dear little friends afar, 
When this faint voice shall reach you, and you are 
All just a little homesick, you must be 
As brave as I am now, and think of me! 

Or, haply, if your eyes, as mine, droop low, 
And would be humored with a tear or so,— 
Go to your Parents, Children !— let them do 
The crying— 'twill be easier for them to! 



125 The Orchard Lands of Long Ago 

THE orchard lands of Long Ago ! 
O drowsy winds, awake, and blow 
The snowy blossoms back to me, 
And all the buds that used to be ! 
Blow back along the grassy ways 
Of truant feet, and lift the haze 
Of happy summer from the trees 
That trail their tresses in the seas 
Of grain that float and overflow 
The orchard lands of Long Ago ! 

Blow back the melody that slips 
In lazy laughter from the lips 
That marvel much if any kiss 
Is sweeter than the apple's is. 
Blow back the twitter of the birds— 
The lisp, the titter, and the words 



155 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Of merriment that found the shine 
Of summer-time a glorious wine 
That drenched the leaves that loved it so, 
In orchard lands of Long Ago ! 

O memory! alight and sing 
Where rosy-bellied pippins cling, 
And golden russets glint and gleam, 
As, in the old Arabian dream, 
The fruits of that enchanted tree 
The glad Aladdin robbed for me ! 
And, drowsy winds, awake and fan 
My blood as when it overran 
A heart ripe as the apples grow 
In orchard lands of Long Ago ! 



126 A Passing Hail 

T ET us rest ourselves a bit! 
■*— * Worry? — wave your hand to it- 
Kiss your finger-tips, and smile 
It farewell a little while. 

Weary of the weary way 
We have come from Yesterday, 
Let us fret us not, instead, 
Of the weary way ahead. 

Let us pause and catch our breath 
On the hither side of death, 

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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

While we see the tender shoots 
Of the grasses — not the roots, — 

While we yet look down — not up — 
To seek out the buttercup 
And the daisy where they wave 
O'er the green home of the grave. 

Let us launch us smoothly on 
The soft billows of the lawn, 
And drift out across the main 
Of our childish dreams again: 

Voyage off, beneath the trees, 
O'er the field's enchanted seas, 
Where the lilies are our sails, 
And our sea-gulls, nightingales : 

Where no wilder storm shall beat 
Than the wind that waves the wheat, 
And no tempest-burst above 
The old laughs we used to love : 

Lose all troubles — gain release, 
Languor, and exceeding peace, 
Cruising idly o'er the vast, 
Calm mid-ocean of the Past. 

Let us rest ourselves a bit ! 
Worry? — Wave your hand to it — 
Kiss your finger-tips, and smile 
It farewell a little while. 
157 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
I2f Envoy 

TV /TAN Y pleasures of Youth have been buoyantly sung- 
•L*-*- And, borne on the winds of delight, may they beat 
With their palpitant wings at the hearts of the Young, 

And in bosoms of Age find as warm a retreat ! — 
Yet sweetest of all of the musical throng, 

Though least of the numbers that upward aspire, 
Is the one rising now into wavering song, 

As I sit in the silence and gaze in the fire. 

'Tis a Winter long dead that beleaguers my door 

And muffles his steps in the snows of the past : 
And I see, in the embers I'm dreaming before, 

Lost faces of love as they looked on me last: — 
The round, laughing eyes of the desk-mate of old 

Gleam out for a moment with truant desire — 
Then fade and are lost in a City of Gold, 

As I sit in, the silence and gaze in the fire. . 

And then comes the face, peering back in my own, 

Of a shy little girl, with her lids drooping low, 
As she faltering tells, in a far-away tone, 

The ghost of a story of long, long ago. — 
Then her dewy blue eyes they are lifted again; 

But I see their glad light slowly fail and expire, 
As I reach and cry to her in vain, all in vain ! — 

As I sit in the silence and gaze in the fire. 

Then the face of a Mother looks back, through the mist 
Of the tears that are welling; and, lucent with light, 

I see the dear smile of the lips I have kissed 
As she knelt by my cradle at morning and night; 

158 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And my arms are outheld, with a yearning too wild 
For any but God in His love to inspire, 

As she pleads at the foot of His throne for her child,- 
As I sit in the silence and gaze in the fire. 

O pathos of rapture! O glorious pain! 

My heart is a blossom of joy overrun 
With a shower of tears, as a lily with rain 

That weeps in the shadow and laughs in the sun. 
The blight of the frost may descend on the tree, 

And the leaf and the flower may fall and expire, 
But ever and ever love blossoms for me, 

As I sit in the silence and gaze in the fire. 



159 



GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING 
BROOKS 

128 A Country Pathway 

I COME upon it suddenly, alone — 
"*■ A little pathway winding in the weeds 
That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, 
I wander as it leads. 

Full wistfully along the slender way, 

Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, 

I take the path that leads me as it may — 
Its every choice is mine. 

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, 
Is startled by my step as on I fare — 

A garter-snake across the dusty trail 
Glances and — is not there. 

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos 
And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, 

Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose 
When autumn winds arise. 

The trail dips — dwindles — broadens then, and lifts 

Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, 
And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts 

Still onward, beckoning me. 
160 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile 
Out of the public highway, still I go, 

My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, 
Allure me even so. 



Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went 
At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, 

And was not found again, though Heaven lent 
His mother all the stars 

With which to seek him through that awful night 

years of nights as vain ! — Stars never rise 
But well might miss their glitter in the light 

Of tears in mother-eyes ! 

So— on, with quickened breaths, I follow still — 

My avant-courier must be obeyed ! 
Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, 

Invites me to invade 

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide 
Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, 

And stumbles down again, the other side, 
To gambol there awhile 

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead 

1 see it running, while the clover-stalks 
Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said — 

"You dog our country-walks 



161 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

"And mutilate us with your walking-stick I — 

We will not suffer tamely what you do, 
And warn you at your peril, — for we'll sic 
Our bumblebees on you !" 

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance, — 
The more determined on my wayward quest, 

As some bright memory a moment dawns 
A morning in my breast — 

Sending a thrill that hurries me along 
In faulty similes of childish skips, 

Enthused with lithe contortions of a song 
Performing on my lips. 

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth — 
Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands, 

Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, 
Put berries in my hands : 

Or the path climbs a boulder — wades a slough— 
Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, 

Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou 
On old tree-trunks and snags : 

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool 

Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, 
With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool 
That its foundation laid. 



162 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I pause a moment here to bend and muse, 
With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where 

A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, 
Or wildly oars the air, 

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook — 

The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed — 

Swings pivoting about, with wary look 
Of low and cunning greed. 

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again 
To where the pathway enters in a realm 

Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign 
Of towering oak and elm. 

A puritanic quiet here reviles 

The almost whispered warble from the hedge, 
And takes a locust's rasping voice and files 

The silence to an edge. 

In such a solitude my somber way 

Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom 

Of his own shadows — till the perfect day 
Bursts into sudden bloom, 

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, 

Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, 

And where the valley's dint in Nature's face 
Dimples a smiling world. 



163 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, 
I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, 

Where, like a gem in costly setting held, 
The old log cabin gleams. 



O darling Pathway ! lead me bravely on 
Adown your valley-way, and run before 

Among the roses crowding up the lawn 
And thronging at the door, — 

And carry up the echo there that shall 
Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay 

The household out to greet the prodigal 
That wanders home to-day. 



129 Judith 

f\ HER eyes are amber-fine — 
^S Dark and deep as wells of wine, 
While her smile is like the noon. 
Splendor of a day of June. 
If she sorrow — lo ! her face 
It is like a flowery space 
In bright meadows, overlaid 
With light clouds and lulled with shade. 
If she laugh — it is a trill 
Of the wayward whippoorwill 
Over upland pastures, heard 
Echoed by the mocking-bird 
164 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

In dim thickets dense with bloom 
And blurred cloyings of perfume. 
If she sigh — a zephyr swells 
Over odorous asphodels 
And wan lilies in lush plots 
Of moon-drown'd forget-me-nots. 
Then, the soft touch of her hand — 
Takes all breath to understand 
What to liken it thereto ! — 
Never roseleaf rinsed with dew 
Might slip soother-suave than slips 
Her slow palm, the while her lips 
Swoon through mine, with kiss on kiss 
Sweet as heated honey is. 



130 John Brown 

\ \ TRIT in between the lines of his life-deed 

* * We trace the sacred service of a heart 
Answering the Divine command, in every part 
Bearing on human weal : His love did feed 
The loveless ; and his gentle hands did lead 
The blind, and lift the weak, and balm the smart 
Of other wounds than rankled at the dart 
In his own breast, that gloried thus to bleed. 
He served the lowliest first — nay, them alone — 
The most despised that e'er wreaked vain breath 
In cries of suppliance in the reign whereat 
Red Guilt sate squat upon her spattered throne. — 
For these doomed there it was he went to death. 
God ! how the merest man loves one like that ! 

165 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
131 Where-Away 

f~\ THE Lands of Where-Away! 
^S Tell us — tell us — where are they? 
Through the darkness and the dawn 
We have journeyed on and on — 
From the cradle to the cross — 
From possession unto loss. — 
Seeking still, from day to day, 
For the lands of Where-Away. 

When our baby-feet were first 
Planted where the daisies burst, 
And the greenest grasses grew 
In the fields we wandered through, — > 
On, with childish discontent, 
Ever on and on we went, 
Hoping still to pass, some day, 
O'er the verge of Where-Away. 

Roses laid their velvet lips 
On our own, with fragrant sips ; 
But their kisses held us not, 
All their sweetness we forgot ; — 
Though the brambles in our track 
Plucked at us to hold us back — 
"Just ahead," we used to say, 
"Lie the Lands of Where-Away." 

Children at the pasture-bars, 
Through the dusk, like glimmering stars, 
Waved their hands that we should bide 
With them over eventide: 
166 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Down the dark their voices failed 
Falteringly, as they hailed, 
And died into yesterday — 
Night ahead and — Where- Away? 

Twining arms about us thrown — 
Warm caresses, all our own, 
Can but stay us for a spell — 
Love hath little new to tell 
To the soul in need supreme, 
Aching ever with the dream 
Of the endless bliss it may 
Find in Lands of Where- Away ! 



132 Being His Mother 

T3 EING his mother, — when he goes away 
-^ I would not hold him overlong, and so 

Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O 
So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay 
To catch the faintest rumor of them ! Nay, 
Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although 
Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow ; 
Let his remembered features, as I pray, 
Smile ever on me ! Ah ! what stress of love 
Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise : 
Its fullest speech ever to be denied 
Mine own — being his mother! All thereof 
Thou knowest only, looking from the skies 
As when not Christ alone was crucified. 

,(.7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

jjj A Water-Color 

\T OW hidden in among the forest-trees 
-*" ^ An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep 
In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these 
A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep 
Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat — 
A little wicker flask tossed into that. 

A sense of utter carelessness and grace 

Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene, — 
As if the June, all hoydenish of face, 

Had romped herself to sleep there on the green, 
And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream 
Were just romantic parcels of her dream. 



134 The Old Year and the New 



A S one in sorrow looks upon 
***• The dead face of a loyal friend, 
By the dim light of New Year's dawn 
I saw the Old Year end. 

Upon the pallid features lay 

The dear old smile — so warm and bright 
Ere thus its cheer had died away 

In ashes of delight. 

168 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The hands that I had learned to love 
With strength of passion half divine, 

Were folded now, all heedless of 
The emptiness of mine. 

The eyes that once had shed their bright 
Sweet looks like sunshine, now were dull, 

And ever lidded from the light 
That made them beautiful. 



ii 



The chimes of bells were in the air, 
And sounds of mirth in hall and street, 

With pealing laughter everywhere 
And throb of dancing feet : 

The mirth and the convivial din 

Of revelers in wanton glee, 
With tunes of harp and violin 

In tangled harmony. 

But with a sense of nameless dread, 
I turned me, from the merry face 

Of this newcomer, to my dead; 
And, kneeling there a space, 

I sobbed aloud, all tearfully : — 

By this dear face so fixed and cold, 

O Lord, let not this New Year be 
As happy as the old ! 

169 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

135 North and South 

/^\F the North I wove a dream, 
^-^ All bespangled with the gleam 

Of the glancing wings of swallows 
Dipping ripples in a stream, 
That, like a tide of wine, 
Wound through lands of shade and shine 
Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine. 

And where orchard-boughs were bent 
Till their tawny fruitage blent 

With the golden wake that marked the 
Way the happy reapers went; 
Where the dawn died into noon 
As the May-mists into June, 
And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon. 

Of the South I dreamed : And there 
Came a vision clear and fair 

As the marvelous enchantments 
Of the mirage of the air; 
And I saw the bayou-trees, 
With their lavish draperies, 
Hang heavy o'er the moon-washed cypress-knees. 

Peering from lush fens of rice, 
I beheld the Negro's eyes, 

Lit with that old superstition 
Death itself can not disguise; 
And I saw the palm-tree nod 
Like an Oriental god, 

And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod. 
170 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And I dreamed that North and South, 
With a sigh of dew and drouth, 

Blew each unto the other 
The salute of lip and mouth; 
And I wakened, awed and thrilled — 
Every doubting murmur stilled 
In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled. 



136 Blind 

\TOXJ think it is a sorry thing 

-*■ That I am blind. Your pitying 
Is welcome to me ; yet indeed, 
I think I have but little need 
Of it. Though you may marvel much 
That we, who see by sense of touch 
And taste and hearing, see things you 
May never look upon ; and true 
Is it that even in the scent 
Of blossoms we find something meant 
No eyes have in their faces read, 
Or wept to see interpreted. 

And you might think it strange if now 

I told you you were smiling. How 

Do I know that? I hold your hand — 

Its language I can understand — 

Give both to me, and I will show 

You many other things I know. 

Listen : We never met before 

Till now? — Well, you are something lower 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Than five-feet-eight in height; and you 

Are slender; and your eyes are blue— 

Your mother's eyes — your mother's hair— 

Your mother's likeness everywhere 

Save in your walk— and that is quite 

Your father's; nervous. — Am I right? 

I thought so. And you used to sing, 

But have neglected everything 

Of vocalism — though you may 

Still thrum on the guitar, and play 

A little on the violin, — 

I know that by the callous in 

The finger-tips of your left hand — 

And, by-the-by, though nature planned 

You as most men, you are, I see, 

"Ltf/^-handed," too, — the mystery 

Is clear, though, — your right arm has been 

Broken, to /'break" the left one in. 

And so, you see, though blind of sight, 

I still have ways of seeing quite 

Too well for you to sympathize 

Excessively, with your good eyes. — 

Though once, perhaps, to be sincere, 

Within the whole asylum here, 

From cupola to basement hall, 

I was the blindest of them all ! 

Let us move farther down the walk — 
The man here waiting hears my talk, 
And is disturbed; besides, he may 
Not be quite friendly anyway. 

172 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

In fact — (this will be far enough; 
Sit down) — the man just spoken of 
Was once a friend of mine. He came 
For treatment here from Burlingame— 
A rich though brilliant student there, 
Who read his eyes out of repair, 
And groped his way up here, where we 
Became acquainted, and where he 
Met one of our girl-teachers, and, 
If you'll believe me, asked her hand 
In marriage, though the girl was blind 
As I am— and the girl declined. 
Odd, wasn't it? Look, you can see 
Him waiting there. Fine, isn't he? 
And handsome, eloquently wide 
And high of brow, and dignified 
With every outward grace, his sight 
Restored to him, clear and bright 
As day-dawn; waiting, waiting still 
For the blind girl that never will 
Be wife of his. How do I know? 
You will recall a while ago 
I told you he and I were friends. 
In all that friendship comprehends, 
I was his friend, I swear ! why, now, 
Remembering his love, and how 
His confidence was all my own, 
I hear, in fancy, the low tone 
Of his deep voice, so full of pride 
And passion, yet so pacified 
With his affliction, that it seems 
An utterance sent out of dreams 
173 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Of saddest melody, withal 
So sorrowfully musical 
It was, and is, must ever be — 
But I'm digressing, pardon me. 
i" knew not anything of love 
In those days, but of that above 
All worldly passion, — for my art — 
Music, — and that, with all my heart 
And soul, blent in a love too great 
For words of mine to estimate. 
And though among my pupils she 
Whose love my friend sought came to me, 
I only knew her fingers' touch 
Because they loitered overmuch 
In simple scales, and needs must be 
Untangled almost constantly. 
But she was bright in other ways, 
And quick of thought ; with ready plays 
Of wit, and with a voice as sweet 
To listen to as one might meet 
In any oratorio — 
And once I gravely told her so, — 
And, at my words, her limpid tone 
Of laughter faltered to a moan, 
And fell from that into a sigh 
That quavered all so wearily, 
That I, without the tear that crept 
Between the keys, had known she wept; 
And yet the hand I reached for then 
She caught away, and laughed again. 
And when that evening I strolled 
With my old friend, I, smiling, told 
174 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Him I believed the girl and he 
Were matched and mated perfectly: 
He was so noble; she, so fair 
Of speech, and womanly of air; 
He, strong, ambitious ; she, as mild 
And artless even as a child; 
And with a nature, I was sure, 
As worshipful as it was pure 
And sweet, and brimmed with tender things 
Beyond his rarest fancyings. 
He stopped me solemnly. He knew, 
He said, how good, and just, and true 
Was all I said of her; but as 
For his own virtues, let them pass, 
Since they were nothing to the one 
That he had set his heart upon ; 
For but that morning she had turned 
Forever from him. Then I learned 
That for a month he had delayed 
His going from us, with no aid 
Of hope to hold him, — meeting still 
Her ever-firm denial, till 
Not even in his new-found sight 
He found one comfort or delight. 
And as his voice broke there, I felt 
The brother-heart within me melt 
In warm compassion for his own 
That throbbed so utterly alone. 
And then a sudden fancy hit 
Along my brain; and coupling it 
With a belief that I, indeed, 
Might help my friend in his great need, 
"75 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I warmly said that I would go 
Myself, if he decided so, 
And see her for him — that I knew 
My pleadings would be listened to 
Most seriously, and that she 
Should love him, listening to me. 
Go ; bless me ! And that was the last — 
The last time his warm hand shut fast 
Within my own — so empty since, 
That the remembered finger-prints 
I've kissed a thousand times, and wet 
Them with the tears of all regret ! 

I know not how to rightly tell 

How fared my quest, and what befell 

Me, coming in the presence of 

That blind girl, and her blinder love. 

I know but little else than that 

Above the chair in which she sat 

I leant — reached for, and found her hand, 

And held it for a moment, and 

Took up the other — held them both — 

As might a friend, I will take oath : 

Spoke leisurely, as might a man 

Praying for no thing other than 

He thinks Heaven's justice: — She was blind, 

I said, and yet a noble mind 

Most truly loved her ; one whose fond 

Clear-sighted vision looked beyond 

The bounds of her infirmity, 

And saw the woman, perfectly 

176 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Modeled, and wrought out pure and true 

And lovable. She quailed, and drew 

Her hands away, but closer still 

I caught them. "Rack me as you will !" 

She cried out sharply — "Call me 'blind' — 

Love ever is — I am resigned ! 

Blind is your friend; as blind as he 

Am I— but blindest of the three — 

Yea, blind as death — you will not see 

My love for you is killing me !" 

There is a memory that may 
Not ever wholly fade away 
From out my heart, so bright and fair 
The light of it still glimmers there. 
Why, it did seem as though my sight 
Flamed back upon me, dazzling white 
And godlike. Not one other word 
Of hers I listened for or heard, 
But I saw songs sung in her eyes 
Till they did swoon up drowning-wise, 
As my mad lips did strike her own, 
And we flashed one, and one alone ! 
Ah! was it treachery for me 
To kneel there, drinking eagerly 
That torrent-flow of words that swept 
Out laughingly the tears she wept? — 
Sweet words ! O sweeter far, maybe, 
Than light of day to those that see, — 
God knows, who did the rapture send 
To me, and hold it from my friend. 

177 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And we were married half a year 
Ago. — And he is — waiting here, 
Heedless of that — or anything, 
But just that he is lingering 
To say good-bye to her, and bow — 
As you may see him doing now, — 
For there's her footstep in the hall ; 
God bless her ! — help him ! — save us all ! 



137 To Hear Her Sing 

*TPO hear her sing — to hear her sing — 
-*■ ' It is to hear the birds of Spring 
In dewy groves on blooming sprays 
Pour out their blithest roundelays. 

It is to hear the robin trill 

At morning, or the whippoorwill 

At dusk, when stars are blossoming — 

To hear her sing — to hear her sing ! 

To hear her sing — it is to hear 
The laugh of childhood ringing clear 
In woody path or grassy lane 
Our feet may never fare again. 

Faint, far away as Memory dwells, 

It is to hear the village bells 

At twilight, as the truant hears 

Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears. 

178 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Such joy it is to hear her sing, 
We fall in love with everything — 
The simple things of every day 
Grow lovelier than words can say. 

The idle brooks that purl across 
The gleaming pebbles and the moss 
"We love no less than classic streams — 
The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. 

To hear her sing— with folded eyes, 
It is, beneath Venetian skies, 
To hear the gondoliers' refrain, 
Or troubadours of sunny Spain. — 

To hear the bulbul's voice that shook 
The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: 
What wonder we in homage bring 
Our hearts to her — to hear her sing ! 



138 The Hereafter 

TT EREAFTER ! O we need not waste 
■*- ■*■ Our smiles or tears, whate'er befall : 
No happiness but holds a taste 

Of something sweeter, after all; — 
No depth of agony but feels 

Some fragment of abiding trust, — 
Whatever Death unlocks or seals, 

The mute beyond is just. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
1 39 While the Musician Played 

f~\ IT was but a dream I had 
^-^ While the musician played ! — 
And here the sky, and here the glad 

Old ocean kissed the glade; 
And here the laughing ripples ran, 

And here the roses grew 
That threw a kiss to every man 

That voyaged with the crew. 

Our silken sails in lazy folds 

Drooped in the breathless breeze : 
As o'er a field of marigolds 

Our eyes swam o'er the seas ; 
While here the eddies lisped and purled 

Around the island's rim, 
And up from out the underworld 

We saw the mermen swim. 

And it was dawn and middle-day 

And midnight — for the moon 
On silver rounds across the bay 

Had climbed the skies of June, 
And there the glowing, glorious king 

Of day ruled o'er his realm, 
With stars of midnight glittering 

About his diadem. 

The sea-gull reeled on languid wing 
In circles round the mast, 

We heard the songs the sirens sing 
As we went sailing past; 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And up and down the golden sands 

A thousand fairy throngs 
Flung at us from their flashing hands 

The echoes of their songs. 

O it was but a dream I had 

While the musician played ! — 
For here the sky, and here the glad 

Old ocean kissed the glade; 
And here the laughing ripples ran, 

And here the roses grew 
That threw a kiss to every man 

That voyaged with the crew. 



140 The Iron Horse 

IV T O song is mine of Arab steed — 
■^ ^ My courser is of nobler blood, 
And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, 

And greater strength and hardihood 
Than ever cantered wild and free 
Across the plains of Araby. 

Go search the level desert-land 
From Sana on to Samarcand— • 
Wherever Persian prince has been 
Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin, 
And I defy you there to point 

Me out a steed the half so fine — 
From tip of ear to pastern-joint — 

As this old iron horse of mine. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

You do not know what beauty is — 
You do not know what gentleness 
His answer is to my caress ! — 

Why, look upon this gait of his, — 

A touch upon his iron rein — 

He moves with such a stately grace 

The sunlight on his burnished mane 
Is barely shaken in its place; 
And at a touch he changes pace, 

And, gliding backward, stops again. 

And talk of mettle — Ah ! my friend, 
Such passion smoulders in his breast 

That when awakened it will send 
A thrill of rapture wilder than 
Ere palpitated heart of man 
When flaming at its mightiest. 

And there's a fierceness in his ire — 
A maddened majesty that leaps 

Along his veins in blood of fire, 
Until the path his vision sweeps 

Spins out behind him like a thread 
Unraveled from the reel of time, 
As, wheeling on his course sublime, 

The earth revolves beneath his tread. 

Then stretch away, my gallant steed ! 
Thy mission is a noble one : 
Thou bear'st the father to the son, 

And sweet relief to bitter need; 

Thou bear'st the stranger to his friends ; 
Thou bear'st the pilgrim to the shrine, 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And back again the prayer he sends 

That God will prosper me and mine, — 
The star that on thy forehead gleams 
Has blossomed in our brightest dreams. 
Then speed thee on thy glorious race ! 
The mother waits thy ringing pace; 
The father leans an anxious ear 
The thunder of thy hooves to hear; 
The lover listens, far away, 
To catch thy keen exultant neigh ; 
And, where thy breathings roll and rise, 
The husband strains his eager eyes, 
And laugh of wife and baby-glee 
Ring out to greet and welcome thee. 
Then stretch away ! and when at last 

The master's hand shall gently check 
Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, 
The world will pat thee on the neck. 



141 The Plaint Human 

O EASON of snows, and season of flowers, 
*^ Seasons of loss and gain ! — 
Since grief and joy must alike be ours, 
Why do we still complain? 

Ever our failing, from sun to sun, 

O my intolerant brother : — 
We want just a little too little of one, 

And much too much of the other. 

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142 The Quarrel 

'"T V HEY faced each other: Topaz-brown 
-*• And lambent burnt her eyes and shot 
Sharp flame at his of amethyst. — 
"I hate you ! Go, and be forgot 
As death forgets !" their glitter hissed 
(So seemed it) in their hatred. Ho! 
Dared any mortal front her so ?— 
Tempestuous eyebrows knitted down — 
Tense nostril, mouth — no muscle slack, — 
And black— the suffocating black — 
The stifling blackness of her frown ! 

Ah ! but the lifted face of her ! 
And the twitched lip and tilted head ! 
Yet he did neither wince nor stir, — 
Only — his hands clenched; and, instead 
Of words, he answered with a stare 
That stammered not in aught it said, 
As might his voice if trusted there. 

And what — what spake his steady gaze ? — 
Was there a look that harshly fell 
To scoff her?— or a syllable 
Of anger? — or the bitter phrase 
That myrrhs the honey of love's lips, 
Or curdles blood as poison-drips? 
What made their breasts to heave and swell 
As billows under bows of ships 
In broken seas on stormy days? 
We may not know — nor they indeed — 
What mercy found them in their need. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

A sudden sunlight smote the gloom; 
And round about them swept a breeze, 
With faint breaths as of clover-bloom; 
A bird was heard, through drone of bees,- 
Then, far and clear and eerily, 
A child's voice from an orchard-tree — 
Then laughter, sweet as the perfume 
Of lilacs, could the hearing see. 
And he — O Love ! he fed thy name 
On bruised kisses, while her dim 
Deep eyes, with all their inner flame, 
Like drowning gems were turned on him. 



143 His Vigil 

/^LOSE the book and dim the light, 
^-^ I shall read no more to-night. 
No — I am not sleepy, dear — 
Do not go : sit by me here 
In the darkness and the deep 
Silence of the watch I keep. 
Something in your presence so 
Soothes me — as in long ago 
I first felt your hand — as now — 
In the darkness touch my brow : 
I've no other wish than you 
Thus should fold mine eyelids to, 
Saying naught of sigh or tear — 
Just as God were sitting here. 



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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

144 Tom Van Arden 

TOM VAN ARDEN, my old friend, 
Our warm fellowship is one 
Far too old to comprehend 
Where its bond was first begun: 
Mirage-like before my gaze 
Gleams a land of other days, 
Where two truant boys, astray, 
Dream their lazy lives away. 

There's a vision, in the guise 

Of Midsummer, where the Past 
Like a weary beggar lies 

In the shadow Time has cast ; 
And as blends the bloom of trees 
With the drowsy hum of bees, 
Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

All the pleasures we have known 
Thrill me now as I extend 

This old hand and grasp your own — 
Feeling, in the rude caress, 
All affection's tenderness; 
Feeling, though the touch be rough, 
Our old souls are soft enough. 

So we'll make a mellow hour: 
Fill your pipe, and taste the wine — 

Warp your face, if it be sour, 
I can spare a smile from mine; 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

If it sharpen up your wit, 
Let me feel the edge of it — 
I have eager ears to lend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
Are we "lucky dogs," indeed? 
Are we all that we pretend 
In the jolly life we lead? — 
Bachelors, we must confess, 
Boast of "single blessedness" 
To the world, but not alone — 
Man's best sorrow is his own ! 

And the saddest truth is this, — 

Life to us has never proved 
What we tasted in the kiss 
Of the women we have loved: 
Vainly we congratulate 
Our escape from such a fate 
As their lying lips could send, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend ! 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

Hearts, like fruit upon the stem, 
Ripen sweetest, I contend, 
As the frost falls over them : 
Your regard for me to-day 
Makes November taste of May, 
And through every vein of rhyme 
Pours the blood of summer-time. 

rs 7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When our souls are cramped with youth 

Happiness seems far away 

In the future, while, in truth, 

We look back on it to-day 

Through our tears, nor dare to boast, — 
"Better to have loved and lost !" 
Broken hearts are hard to mend, 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 

I grow prosy, and you tire ; 
Fill the glasses while I bend 

To prod up the failing fire . . . 
You are restless : — I presume 
There's a dampness in the room.— 
Much of warmth our nature begs, 
With rheumatics in our legs ! . . . 

Humph ! the legs we used to fling 

Limber-jointed in the dance, 
When we heard the fiddle ring 
Up the curtain of Romance, 
And in crowded public halls 
Played with hearts like jugglers' balls.- 
Feats of mountebanks, depend! — 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 

Tom Van Arden, my old friend, 
Pardon, then, this theme of mine : 

While the firelight leaps to lend 
Higher color to the wine, — 

m 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I propose a health to those 
Who have homes, and home's repose, 
Wife- and child-love without end ! 
...Tom Van Arden, my old friend. 



145 The Blossoms on the Trees 

T) LOSSOMS crimson, white, or blue, 
*-^ Purple, pink, and every hue, 
From sunny skies, to tintings drowned 

In dusky drops of dew, 
I praise you all, wherever found, 

And love you through and through ; — p 
But, Blossoms On The Trees, 
With your breath upon the breeze, 
There's nothing all the world around 

As half as sweet as you ! 

Could the rhymer only wring 

All the sweetness to the lees 
Of all the kisses clustering 

In juicy Used-to-bes, 
To dip his rhymes therein and sing 

The blossoms on the trees, — 
"O Blossoms on the Trees," 

He would twitter, trill, and coo, 
"However sweet, such songs as these 

Are not as sweet as you : — 
For you are blooming melodies 

The eyes may listen to !" 



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146 Her Beautiful Eyes 

/^V HER beautiful eyes ! they are as blue as the dew 
^-^ On the violet's bloom when the morning is new, 
And the light of their love is the gleam of the sun 
O'er the meadows of Spring where the quick shadows run : 
As the morn shifts the mists and the clouds from the skies — 
So I stand in the dawn of her beautiful eyes. 

And her beautiful eyes are as mid-day to me, 
When the lily-bell bends with the weight of the bee, 
And the throat of the thrush is a-pulse in the heat, 
And the senses are drugged with the subtle and sweet 
And delirious breaths of the air's lullabies — 
So I swoon in the noon of her beautiful eyes. 

O her beautiful eyes ! they have smitten mine own 

As a glory glanced down from the glare of The Throne ; 

And I reel, and I falter and fall, as afar 

Fell the shepherds that looked on the mystical Star, 

And yet dazed in the tidings that bade them arise — 

So I grope through the night of her beautiful eyes. 

147 Home at Night 

"\ ^THEN chirping crickets fainter cry, 
* * And pale stars blossom in the sky, 
And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom 
And blurred the butterfly : 

When locust-blossoms fleck the walk, 
And up the tiger-lily stalk 
The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls 
And glimmers down the garden-walls : 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When buzzing things, with double wings 

Of crisp and raspish flutterings, 

Go whizzing by so very nigh 

One thinks of fangs and stings: — 

O then, within, is stilled the din 
Of crib she rocks the baby in, 
And heart and gate and latch's weight 
Are lifted — and the lips of Kate. 



148 Just to be Good 

JUST to be good — 
This is enough — enough ! 
O we who find sin's billows wild and rough, 
Do we not feel how more than any gold 
Would be the blameless life we led of old 
While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss? 
Ah ! though we miss 
All else but this, 

To be good is enough ! 

It is enough — 

Enough — just to be good! 
To lift our hearts where they are understood; 
To let the thirst for worldly power and place 
Go unappeased ; to smile back in God's face 
With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. 
Ah ! though we miss 
All else but this, 

To be good is enough ! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

149 Autumn 

AS a harvester, at dusk, 
-^** Faring down some woody trail 
Leading homeward through the musk 
Of May-apple and pawpaw, 
Hazel-bush, and spice and haw, — 
So comes Autumn, swart and hale, 
Drooped of frame and slow of stride, 
But withal an air of pride 
Looming up in stature far 
Higher than his shoulders are; 
Weary both in arm and limb, 
Yet the wholesome heart of him 
Sheer at rest and satisfied. 

Greet him as with glee of drums 
And glad cymbals, as he comes ! 
Robe him fair, O Rain and Shine! 
He the Emperor — the King — 
Royal lord of everything 
Sagging Plenty's granary floors 
And out-bulging all her doors; 
He the god of corn and wine, 
Honey, milk, and fruit and oil — 
Lord of feast, as lord of toil- 
Jocund host of yours and mine ! 

Ho ! the revel of his laugh ! — 
Half is sound of winds, and half 
Roar of ruddy blazes drawn 
Up the throats of chimneys wide, 
Circling which, from side to side, 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Faces— lit as by the Dawn, 
With her highest tintings on 
Tip of nose, and cheek, and chin — 
Smile at some old fairy-tale 
Of enchanted lovers, in 
Silken gown and coat of mail, 
With a retinue of elves 
Merry as their very selves, 
Trooping ever, hand in hand, 
Down the dales of Wonderland. 

Then the glory of his song ! — 
Lifting up his dreamy eyes — 
Singing haze across the skies; 
Singing clouds that trail along 
Towering tops of trees that seize 
Tufts of them to stanch the breeze; 
Singing slanted strands of rain 
In between the sky and earth, 
For the lyre to mate the mirth 
And the might of his refrain : 
Singing southward-flying birds 
Down to us, and afterwards 
Singing them to flight again : 
Singing blushes to the cheeks 
Of the leaves upon the trees — 
Singing on and changing these 
Into pallor, slowly wrought, 
Till the little, moaning creeks 
Bear them to their last farewell, 
As Elaine, the lovable, 

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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Was borne down to Lancelot. — 
Singing drip of tears, and then 
Drying them with smiles again. 

Singing apple, peach and grape, 

Into roundest, plumpest shape; 

Rosy ripeness to the face 

Of the pippin; and the grace 

Of the dainty stamin-tip 

To the huge bulk of the pear, 

Pendant in the green caress 

Of the leaves, and glowing through 

With the tawny laziness 

Of the gold that Ophir knew, — 

Haply, too, within its rind 

Such a cleft as bees may find, 

Bungling on it half aware, 

And wherein to see them sip, 

Fancy lifts an oozy lip, 

And the singer's falter there. 

Sweet as swallows swimming through 
Eddyings of dusk and dew, 
Singing happy scenes of home 
Back to sight of eager eyes 
That have longed for them to come, 
Till their coming is surprise 
Uttered only by the rush 
Of quick tears and prayerful hush : 
Singing on, in clearer key, 
Hearty palms of you and me 
Into grasps that tingle still 
Rapturous, and ever will ! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Singing twank and twang of strings- 
Trill of flute and clarinet 
In a melody that rings 
Like the tunes we used to play, 
And our dreams are playing yet ! 
Singing lovers, long astray, 
Each to each ; and, sweeter things, — 
Singing in their marriage-day, 
And a banquet holding all 
These delights for festival. 



150 Bedouin 

f~\ LOVE is like an untamed steed! — 
^-^ So hot of heart and wild of speed, 
And with fierce freedom so in love, 
The desert is not vast enough, 
With all its leagues of glimmering sands, 
To pasture it ! Ah, that my hands 
Were more than human in their strength, 
That my deft lariat at length 
Might safely noose this splendid thing 
That so defies all conquering! 
Ho ! but to see it whirl and reel — 
The sands spurt forward — and to feel 
The quivering tension of the thong 
That throned me high, with shriek and song! 
To grapple tufts of tossing mane — 
To spurn it to its feet again, 
And then, sans saddle, rein or bit, 
To lash the mad life out of it! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

151 Let Us Forget 

T ET us forget. What matters it that we 

■*— ' Once reigned o'er happy realms of long ago, 

And talked of love, and let our voices low, 
And ruled for some brief sessions royally? 
What if we sung, or laughed, or wept maybe? 

It has availed not anything, and so 

Let it go by that we may better know 
How poor a thing is lost to you and me. 

But yesterday I kissed your lips, and yet 
Did thrill you not enough to shake the dew 

From your drenched lids — and missed, with no regret, 
Your kiss shot back, with sharp breaths failing you : 

And so, to-day, while our worn eyes are wet 

With all this waste of tears, let us forget ! 



152 Sleep 

r\ RPHANED, I cry to thee : 
^-^ Sweet Sleep ! O kneel and be 
A mother unto me ! 

Calm thou my childish fears : 
Fold — fold mine eyelids to, all tenderly, 
And dry my tears. 

Come, Sleep, all drowsy-eyed 
And faint with languor, — slide 
Thy dim face down beside 

Mine own, and let me rest 
And nestle in thy heart, and there abide, 
A favored guest. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Good night to every care, 
And shadow of despair ! 
Good night to all things where 

Within is no delight ! — 
Sleep opens her dark arms, and, swooning there, 
I sob : Good night — good night ! 



I 53 When Age Comes On 

\ ^fHEN Age comes on! — 
* * The deepening dusk is where the dawn 

Once glittered splendid, and the dew, 
In honey-drips from red rose-lips, 

Was kissed away by me and you. — 
And now across the frosty lawn 
Black footprints trail, and Age comes on — 
And Age comes on ! 

And biting wild-winds whistle through 
Our tattered hopes — and Age comes on ! 

When Age comes on ! — 

O tide of raptures, long withdrawn, 

Flow back in summer floods, and fling 
Here at our feet our childhood sweet, 

And all the songs we used to sing ! . . . 
Old loves, old friends — all dead and gone — 
Our old faith lost — and Age comes on — 
And Age comes on ! 

Poor hearts! have we not anything 
But longings left when Age comes on? 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
154 Dan Paine 

OLD friend of mine, whose chiming name 
Has been the burthen of a rhyme 
Within my heart since first I came 
To know thee in thy mellow prime : 
With warm emotions in my breast 
That can but coldly be expressed, 
And hopes and wishes wild and vain, 
I reach my hand to thee, Dan Paine. 

In fancy, as I sit alone 

In gloomy fellowship with care, 
I hear again thy cheery tone, 

And wheel for thee an easy-chair; 
And from my hand the pencil falls — 
My book upon the carpet sprawls, 
As eager soul and heart and brain 
Leap up to welcome thee, Dan Paine. 

A something gentle in thy mien, 

A something tender in thy voice, 
Has made my trouble so serene, 
I can but weep, from very choice. 
And even then my tears, I guess, 
Hold more of sweet than bitterness, 
And more of gleaming shine than rain, 
Because of thy bright smile, Dan Paine. 

The wrinkles that the years have spun 
And tangled round thy tawny face, 

Are kinked with laughter, every one, 
And fashioned in a mirthful grace. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And though the twinkle of thine eyes 

Is keen as frost when Summer dies, 

It can not long as frost remain 

While thy warm soul shines out, Dan Paine. 

And so I drain a health to thee : — 

May merry Joy and jolly Mirth 
Like children clamber on thy knee, 
And ride thee round the happy earth ! 
And when, at last, the hand of Fate 
Shall lift the latch of Canaan's gate, 
And usher me in thy domain, 
Smile on me just as now, Dan Paine. 



755 Their Szveet Sorrow 

HP HEY meet to say farewell : Their way 
-** Of saying this is hard to say. — 
He holds her hand an instant, wholly 
Distressed— and she unclasps it slowly. 

He bends his gaze evasively 

Over the printed page that she 
Recurs to, with a new-moon shoulder 
Glimpsed from the lace-mists that enfold her. 

The clock, beneath its crystal cup, 
Discreetly clicks — "Quick! Act! Speak up!" 
A tension circles both her slender 
Wrists — and her raised eyes flash in splendor, 
Top 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Even as he feels his dazzled own. — 
Then, blindingly, round either thrown, 
They feel a stress of arms that ever 
Strain tremblingly and — "Never! Never!" 

Is whispered brokenly, with half 

A sob, like a belated laugh, — 

While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes,— 
Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's. 



156 The Old Retired Sea-Captain 

r I ^HE old sea-captain has sailed the seas 

-*■ So long, that the waves at mirth, 
Or the waves gone wild, and the crests of these, 

Were as near playmates from birth : 
He has loved both the storm and the calm, because 

They seemed as his brothers twain,— 
The flapping sail was his soul's applause, 

And his rapture, the roaring main. 

But now— like a battered hulk seems he, 

Cast high on a foreign strand, 
Though he feels "in port," as it need must be, 

And the stay of a daughter's hand — 
Yet ever the round of the listless hours, — 

His pipe, in the languid air — 
The grass, the trees, and the garden flowers, 

And the strange earth everywhere ! 



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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And so betimes he is restless here 

In this little inland town, 
With never a wing in the atmosphere 

But the wind-mill's, up and down ; 
His daughter's home in this peaceful vale, 

And his grandchild 'twixt his knees — 
But never the hail of a passing sail, 

Nor the surge of the angry seas ! 

He quits his pipe, and he snaps its neck — 

Would speak, though he coughs instead, 
Then paces the porch like a quarter-deck 

With a reeling mast o'erhead ! 
Ho ! the old sea-captain's cheeks glow warm, 

And his eyes gleam grim and weird, 
As he mutters about, like a thunder-storm, 

In the cloud of his beetling beard. 



757 August 

J\ DAY of torpor in the sullen heat 
** ** Of Summer's passion : In the sluggish stream 
The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, 
With drowsy eyes, and dream. 

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky 
There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; 

The sun glares ever like an evil eye, 
And withers flower and leaf. 



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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote 
The thresher lies deserted, like some old 

Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat 
Upon a sea of gold. 

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird 
Above an empty nest, and truant boys 

Along the river's shady margin heard— 
A harmony of noise — 

A melody of wrangling voices blent 

With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls 

Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent 
To mimic waterfalls. 

• 
And through the hazy veil the atmosphere 

Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, 
The sifted glances of the sun appear 

In splinterings of spray. 

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, 
Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by, 

A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on 
His journey to the sky. 

And down across the valley's drooping sweep, 
Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, 

The forest stands in silence, drinking deep 
Its purple wine of shade. 



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The gossamer floats up on phantom wing ; 

The sailor-vision voyages the skies 
And carries into chaos everything 

That freights the weary eyes : 

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat 
Increases— reaches — passes fever's height, 

And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, 
Within the arms of Night. 



158 Go, Winter! 

(~*0, Winter! Go thy ways! We want again 
^~* The twitter of the bluebird and the wren; 
Leaves ever greener growing, and the shine 
Of Summer's sun — not thine. — 

Thy sun, which mocks our need of warmth and love 
And all the heartening fervencies thereof, 
It scarce hath heat enow to warm our thin 
Pathetic yearnings in. 

So get thee from us ! We are cold, God wot, 
Even as thou art. — We remember not 
How blithe we hailed thy coming. — That was O 
Too long — too long ago ! 

Get from us utterly ! Ho ! Summer then 
Shall spread her grasses where thy snows have been, 
And thy last icy footprint melt and mold 
In her first marigold. 
9&3 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

159 Donn Piatt of Mac-o-Chee 
1 

TAONN Piatt— of Mac-o-chee,— 
*^ Not the one of History, 
Who, with flaming tongue and pen, 
Scathes the vanities of men ; 
Not the one whose biting wit 
Cuts pretense and etches it 
On the brazen brow that dares 
Filch the laurel that it wears : 
Not the Donn Piatt whose praise 
Echoes in the noisy ways 
Of the faction, onward led 
By the statesman ! — But, instead, 
Give the simple man to me, — 
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! 

11 
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee ! 
Branches of the old oak-tree, 
Drape him royally in fine 
Purple shade and golden shine ! 
Emerald plush of sloping lawn 
Be the throne he sits upon ! 
And, O Summer Sunset, thou 
Be his crown, and gild a brow 
Softly smoothed and soothed and calmed 
By the breezes, mellow-palmed 
As Erata's white hand agleam 
On the forehead of a dream. — 
So forever rule o'er me, 
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee ! 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee: 
Through a lilied memory 
Plays the wayward little creek 
Round thy home at hide-and-seek- 
As I see and hear it, still 
Romping round the wooded hill, 
Till its laugh-and-babble blends 
With the silence while it sends 
Glances back to kiss the sight, 
In its babyish delight, 
Ere it strays amid the gloom 
Of the glens that burst in bloom 
Of the rarest rhyme for thee, 
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee! 



Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee ! 
What a darling destiny 
Has been mine — to meet him there- 
Lolling in an easy-chair 
On the terrace, while he told 
Reminiscences of old — 
Letting my cigar die out, 
Hearing poems talked about ; 
And entranced to hear him say 
Gentle things of Thackeray, 
Dickens, Hawthorne, and the rest, 
Known to him as host and guest — 
Known to him as he to me — 
Donn Piatt of Mac-o-choe ! 
205 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
160 Longfellozv 

r I A HE winds have talked with him confidingly; 
-** The trees have whispered to him; and the night 

Hath held him gently as a mother might. 
And taught him all sad tones of melody : 
The mountains have bowed to him ; and the sea, 

In clamorous waves, and murmurs exquisite, 

Hath told him all her sorrow and delight — 
Her legends fair— her darkest mystery. 

His verse blooms like a flower, night and day; 
Bees cluster round his rhymes; and twitterings 

Of lark and swallow, in an endless May, 
Are mingling with the tender songs he sings. — 

Nor shall he cease to sing — in every lay 

Of Nature's voice he sings — and will alway. 



161 The Quiet Lodger 

r I ^HE man that rooms next door to me: 

-** Two weeks ago, this very night, 
He took possession quietly, 
As any other lodger might— 

But why the room next mine should so 
Attract him I was vexed to know, — 
Because his quietude, in fine, 
Was far superior to mine. 

"Now, I like quiet, truth to tell, 
A tranquil life is sweet to me — 
But this" I sneered, "suits me too well. — 
He shuts his door so noiselessly, 
206 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And glides about so very mute, 
In each mysterious pursuit, 
His silence is oppressive, and 
Too deep for me to understand." 

Sometimes, forgetting book or pen, 

I've found my head in breathless poise 
Lifted, and dropped in shame again, 
Hearing some alien ghost of noise — 

Some smothered sound that seemed to be 
A trunk-lid dropped unguardedly, 
Or the crisp writhings of some quire 
Of manuscript thrust in the fire. 

Then I have climbed, and closed in vain 

My transom, opening in the hall; 
Or close against the window-pane 

Have pressed my fevered face, — but all 
The day or night without held not 
A sight or sound or counter-thought 
To set my mind one instant free 
Of this man's silent mastery. 

And often I have paced the floor 

With muttering anger, far at night, 
Hearing, and cursing, o'er and o'er, 
The muffled noises, and the light 

And tireless movements of this guest 
Whose silence raged above my rest 
Hoarser than howling storms at sea — 
The man that rooms next door to me. 

207 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But twice or thrice, upon the stair, 

I've seen his face — most strangely wan, — 
Each time upon me unaware 

He came — smooth'd past me, and was gone. — 
So like a whisper he went by, 
I listened after, ear and eye, 
Nor could my chafing fancy tell 
The meaning of one syllable. 

Last night I caught him, face to face, — 

He entering his room, and I 
Glaring from mine : He paused a space 
And met my scowl all shrinkingly, 
But with full gentleness : The key 
Turned in his door — and I could see 
It tremblingly withdrawn and put 
Inside, and then — the door was shut. 

Then silence. Silence! — why, last night 

The silence was tumultuous, 
And thundered on till broad daylight; — 
O never has it stunned me thus !— 
It rolls, and moans, and mumbles yet. — 
Ah, God! how loud may silence get 
When man mocks at a brother man 
Who answers but as silence can ! 

The silence grew, and grew, and grew, 
Till at high noon to-day 'twas heard 

Throughout the house; and men flocked through 
The echoing halls, with faces blurred 



208 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With pallor, gloom, and fear, and awe, 
And shuddering at what they saw, — 
The quiet lodger, as he lay 
Stark of the life he cast away. 



So strange to-night — those voices there, 

Where all so quiet was. before: 
They say the face has not a care 
Nor sorrow in it any more . . . 
His latest scrawl : — "Forgive me — You 
Who prayed, 'They know not what they do V 
My tears will never let me see 
This man that rooms next door to me ! 



162 The Rival 

1 SO loved once, when Death came by I hid 
■*~ Away my face, 

And all my sweetheart's tresses she undid 
To make my hiding-place. 

The dread shade passed me thus unheeding; and 

I turned me then 
To calm my love — kiss down her shielding hand 

And comfort her again. 

And lo ! she answered not: And she did sit 

All fixedly, 
With her fair face and the sweet smile of it, 

In love with Death, not me. 
209 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
163 A Monument for the Soldiers 

A MONUMENT for the Soldiers! 
"*■ *- And what will ye build it of ? 
Can ye build it of marble, or brass, or bronze, 

Outlasting the Soldiers' love? 
Can ye glorify it with legends 

As grand as their blood hath writ 
From the inmost shrine of this land of thine 

To the outermost verge of it ? 

And the answer came : We would build it 

Out of our hopes made sure, 
And put of our purest prayers and tears, 

And out of our faith secure : 
We would build it out of the great white truths 

Their death hath sanctified, 
And the sculptured forms of the men in arms, 

And their faces ere they died. 

And what heroic figures 

Can the sculptor carve in stone? 
Can the marble breast be made to bleed, 

And the marble lips to moan ? 
Can the marble brow be fevered? 

And the marble eyes be graved 
To look their last, as the flag floats past, 

On the country they have saved ? 

And the answer came : The figures 

Shall all be fair and brave, 
And, as befitting, as pure and white 

As the stars above their grave ! 
210 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The marble lips, and breast and brow 

Whereon the laurel lies, 
Bequeath us right to guard the flight 

Of the old flag in the skies ! 

A monument for the Soldiers ! 

Built of a people's love, 
And blazoned and decked and panoplied 

With the hearts ye build it of ! 
And see that ye build it stately, 

In pillar and niche and gate, 
And high in pose as the souls of those 

It would commemorate ! 



164. The Watches of the Night 

/^\ THE waiting in the watches of the night ! 
^S In the darkness, desolation, and contrition and af- 
fright ; 
The awful hush that holds us shut away from all delight : 
The ever-weary memory that ever weary goes 
Recounting ever over every aching loss it knows — 
The ever-weary eyelids gasping ever for repose — 
In the dreary, weary watches of the night ! 

Dark — stifling dark — the watches of the night ! 

With tingling nerves at tension, how the blackness flashes 

white 
With spectral visitations smitten past the inner sight ! — 



211 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

What shuddering sense of wrongs we've wrought that 

may not be redressed — 
Of tears we did not brush away— of lips we left un- 

pressed, 
And hands that we let fall, with all their loyalty un- 

guessed ! 
Ah! the empty, empty watches of the night! 

What solace in the watches of the night? — 

What frailest staff of hope to stay — what faintest shaft of 

light? 
Do we dream, and dare believe it, that by never weight of 
right 
Of our own poor weak deservings, we shall win the dawn 

at last — 
Our famished souls find freedom from this penance for 

the past, 
In a faith that leaps and lightens from the gloom that 
flees aghast — • 
Shall we survive the watches of the night? 

One leads us through the watches of the night — 
By the ceaseless intercession of our loved ones lost to sight 
He is with us through all trials, in His mercy and His 
might ;— 
With our mothers there about Him, all our sorrow dis- 
appears, 
Till the silence of our sobbing is the prayer the Master 

hears, 
And His hand is laid upon us with the tenderness of 
tears 
In the waning of the watches of the night. 
212 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

i6j My Friend 

" T T E is my f riend, ,, I said, — 
■^1 "Be patient !" Overhead 
The skies were drear and dim ; 
And lo ! the thought of him 
Smiled on my heart — and then 
The sun shone out again! 

"He is my friend !" The words 
Brought summer and the birds ; 
And all my winter-time 
Thawed into running rhyme 
And rippled into song, 
Warm, tender, brave, and strong. 

And so it sings to-day. — 
So may it sing alway ! 
Though waving grasses grow 
Between, and lilies blow 
Their trills of perfume clear 
As laughter to the ear, 
Let each mute measure end 
With "Still he is thy friend." 



166 The Passing of a Heart 

/^\ TOUCH me with your hands — 

^-^ For pity's sake ! 

My brow throbs ever on with such an ache 

As only your cool touch may take away ; 

And so, I pray 

You, touch me with your hands ! 
213 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Touch — touch me with your hands. — 

Smooth back the hair 
You once caressed, and kissed, and called so fair 
That I did dream its gold would wear alway, 
And lo, to-day — 

O touch me with your hands ! 

Just touch me with your hands, 

And let them press 
My weary eyelids with the old caress, 
And lull me till I sleep. Then go your way, 
That Death may say : 

He touched her with his hands. 



16/ We to Sigh Instead of Sing 

" T3 AIN and rain ! and rain and rain I" 
^■^ Yesterday we muttered 
Grimly as the grim refrain 

That the thunders uttered: 
All the heavens under cloud — 

All the sunshine sleeping; 
All the grasses limply bowed 

With their weight of weeping. 

Sigh and sigh ! and sigh and sigh ! 

Never end of sighing; 
Rain and rain for our reply — 

Hopes half-drowned and dying; 



214 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Peering through the window-pane, 
Naught but endless raining — 

Endless sighing, and, as vain, 
Endlessly complaining. 

Shine and shine ! and shine and shine ! 

Ah ! to-day the splendor ! — 
All this glory yours and mine — 

God ! but God is tender ! 
We to sigh instead of sing, 

Yesterday, in sorrow, 
While the Lord was fashioning 

This for our To-morrow ! 



168 Suspense 

A WOMAN'S figure, on a ground of night 
-*** Inlaid with sallow stars that dimly stare 

Down in the lonesome eyes, uplifted there 
As in vague hope some alien lance of light 
Might pierce their woe. The tears that blind her sight- 

The salt and bitter blood of her despair — 

Her hands toss back through torrents of her hair 
And grip toward God with anguish infinite. 

And O the carven mouth, with all its great 
Intensity of longing frozen fast 

In such a smile as well may designate 
The slowly murdered heart, that, to the last, 

Conceals each newer wound, and back at Fate 
Throbs Love's eternal lie — "Lo, 1 can wait !" 
215 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

i6p John McKeen 

JOHN McKEEN, in his rusty dress, 
His loosened collar, and swarthy throat, 
His face unshaven, and none the less, 
His hearty laugh and his wholesomeness, 
And the wealth of a workman's vote ! 

Bring him, O Memory, here once more, 

And tilt him back in his Windsor chair 
By the kitchen stove, when the day is o'er 
And the light of the hearth is across the floor, 
And the crickets everywhere ! 

And let their voices be gladly blent 

With a watery jingle of pans and spoons, 
And a motherly chirrup of sweet content, 
And neighborly gossip and merriment, 
And old-time fiddle-tunes ! 

Tick the clock with a wooden sound, 

And fill the hearing with childish glee 
Of rhyming riddle, or story found 
In the Robinson Crusoe, leather-bound 
Old book of the Used-to-be! 

John McKeen of the Past ! Ah, John, 

To have grown ambitious in worldly ways !- 
To have rolled your shirt-sleeves down, to don 
A broadcloth suit, and, forgetful, gone 
Out on election days ! 

John, ah, John ! did it prove your worth 

To yield you the office you still maintain? — 
216 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

To fill your pockets, but leave the dearth 
Of all the happier things on earth 
To the hunger of heart and brain? 

Under the dusk of your villa trees, 

Edging the drives where your blooded span 
Paw the pebbles and wait your ease, — 
Where are the children about your knees, 
And the mirth, and the happy man ? 

The blinds of your mansion are battened to; 

Your faded wife is a close recluse ; 
And your "finished" daughters will doubtless do 
Dutifully all that is willed of you, 

And marry as you shall choose ! — 

But O for the old-home voices, blent 

With the watery jingle of pans and spoons, 
And the motherly chirrup of glad content, 
And neighborly gossip and merriment, 
And the old-time fiddle-tunes! 



170 At Utter Loaf 

AN afternoon as ripe with heat 
^** As might the golden pippin be 
With mellowness if at my feet 

It dropped now from the apple-tree 
My hammock swings in lazily. 

217 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The boughs about me spread a shade 
That shields me from the sun, but weaves 
With breezy shuttles through the leaves 

Blue rifts of skies, to gleam and fade 
Upon the eyes that only see 
Just of themselves, all drowsily. 

Above me drifts the fallen skein 

Of some tired spider, looped and blown, 

As fragile as a strand of rain, 
Across the air, and upward thrown 
By breaths of hay-fields newly mown — 

So glimmering it is and fine, 

I doubt these drowsy eyes of mine. 

Far-off and faint as voices pent 

In mines, and heard from underground, 

Come murmurs as of discontent, 
And clamorings of sullen sound 

The city sends me, as, I guess, 

To vex me, though they do but bless 

Me in my drowsy fastnesses. 

I have no care. I only know 

My hammock hides and holds me here 

In lands of shade a prisoner : 
While lazily the breezes blow 

Light leaves of sunshine over me, 
And back and forth and to and fro 

I swing, enwrapped in some hushed glee, 

Smiling at all things drowsily. 
218 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

i/i September Dark 

^HE air falls chill; 

•** The whippoorwill 
Pipes lonesomely behind the hill: 
The dusk grows dense, 
The silence tense; 
And lo, the katydids commence. 

Through shadowy rifts 

Of woodland, lifts 

The low, slow moon, and upward drifts, 

While left and right 

The fireflies' light 

Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night. 

O Cloudland, gray 

And level, lay 

Thy mists across the face of Day ! 

At foot and head, 

Above the dead, 

O Dews, weep on uncomforted ! 



172 A Glimpse of Pan 

F CAUGHT but a glimpse of him. Summer was here, 
-*■ And I strayed from the town and its dust and heat, 
And walked in a wood, while the noon was near, 
Where the shadows were cool, and the atmosphere 

Was misty with fragrances stirred by my feet 
From surges of blossoms that billowed sheer 

O'er the grasses, green and sweet. 
219 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And I peered through a vista of leaning trees, 
Tressed with long tangles of vines that swept 

To the face of a river, that answered these 

With vines in the wave like the vines in the breeze, 
Till the yearning lips of the ripples crept 

And kissed them, with quavering ecstasies, 
And wistfully laughed and wept. 

And there, like a dream in a swoon, I swear 
I saw Pan lying, — his limbs in the dew 

And the shade, and his face in the dazzle and glare 

Of the glad sunshine ; while everywhere, 
Over, across, and around him blew 

Filmy dragon-flies hither and there, 
And little white butterflies, two and two, 
In eddies of odorous air. 



j/j A Southern Singer 

Written in Madison Cawein's "Lyrics and Idyls." 

TJ EREIN are blown from out the South 
■*■ -*• Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth- 
As sweet in voice as, in perfume, 
The night-breath of magnolia-bloom. 

Such sumptuous languor lures the sense — 
Such luxury of indolence — 
The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur, 
With water-lilies watching her. 

220 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

You waken, thrilling at the trill 
Of some wild bird that seems to spill 
The silence full of winey drips 
Of song that Fancy sips and sips. 

Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough 
The chipmunk stripes himself from view, 
You pause to lop a creamy spray 
Of elder-blossoms by the way. 

Or where the morning dew is yet 
Gray on the topmost rail, you set 
A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet 
Your vaulting shadow in the wheat. 

On lordly swards, of suave incline, 
Entessellate with shade and shine, 
You shall misdoubt your lowly birth, 
Clad on as one of princely worth : 

The falcon on your wrist shall ride — 
Your milk-white Arab side by side 
With one of raven-black. — You fain 
Would kiss the hand that holds the rein. 

Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer! 
Sing us back home — from there to here: 
Grant your high grace and wit, but we 
Most honor your simplicity. — 

Herein are blown from out the South 
Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth- 
As sweet in voice as, in perfume, 
The night-breath of magnolia-bloom, 

221 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
174 A Song of Long Ago 

A SONG of Long Ago : 
-*•*- Sing it lightly — sing it low — 
Sing it softly — like the lisping of the lips we used 

to know 
When our baby-laughter spilled 
From the glad hearts ever filled 
With music blithe as robin ever trilled ! 

Let the fragrant summer breeze, 

And the leaves of locust-trees, 

And the apple-buds and -blossoms, and the wings 

of honey-bees, 
All palpitate with glee, 
Till the happy harmony 
Brings back each childish joy to you and me. 

Let the eyes of fancy turn 

Where the tumbled pippins burn 

Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass 

and fern, — 
There let the old path wind 
In and out, and on behind 
The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. 

Blend in the song the moan 

Of the dove that grieves alone, 

And the wild whir of the locust, and the bumble's 

drowsy drone; 
And the low of cows that call 
Through the pasture-bars when all 
The landscape fades away at evenfall. 
222 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Then, far away and clear, 

Through the dusky atmosphere, 

Let the wailing of the killdee be the only sound we 

hear: 
O sad and sweet and low 
As the memory may know 
Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago ! 



175 The Wife-Blessed 

T N youth he wrought, with eyes ablur, 
A Lorn-faced and long of hair- 
In youth — in youth he painted her 

A sister of the air — 
Could clasp her not, but felt the stir 

Of pinions everywhere. 

She lured his gaze, in braver days, 
And tranced him sirenwise ; 

And he did paint her, through a haze 
Of sullen paradise, 

With scars of kisses on her face 
And embers in her eyes. 

And now — nor dream nor wild conceit — 
Though faltering, as before — 

Through tears he paints her, as is meet, 
Tracing the dear face o'er 

With lilied patience meek and sweet 
As Mother Mary wore. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

1/6 By Her White Bed 

"O Y her white bed I muse a little space : 

■*-' She fell asleep — not very long ago, — 

And yet the grass was here and not the snow — 

The leaf, the bud, the blossom, and — her face ! — 

Midsummer's heaven above us, and the grace 

Of Love's own day, from dawn to afterglow ; 

The fireflies' glimmering, and the sweet and low 

Plaint of the whippoorwills, and every place 

In thicker twilight for the roses' scent. 

Then night. — She slept — in such tranquillity, 

I walk atiptoe still, nor dare to weep, 

Feeling, in all this hush, she rests content — 

That though God stood to wake her for me,. she 

Would mutely plead : "Nay, Lord ! Let him so sleep." 



177 Reach Your Hand to Me 

T3 EACH your hand to me, my friend, 
-^^ With its heartiest caress — 
Sometime there will come an end 
To its present faithfulness — 

Sometime I may ask in vain 
For the touch of it again, 
When between us land or sea 
Holds it ever back from me. 



Sometime I may need it so, 
Groping somewhere in the night, 

It will seem to me as though 
Just a touch, however light, 
224 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Would make all the darkness day, 
And along some sunny way 
Lead me through an April-shower 
Of my tears to this fair hour. 

O the present is too sweet 
To go on forever thus ! 
Round the corner of the street 
Who can say what waits for us? — 
Meeting — greeting, night and day, 
Faring each the selfsame way — 
Still somewhere the path must end. — 
Reach your hand to me, my friend ! 



178 Thanksgiving 

LET us be thankful — not only because 
-* Since last our universal thanks were told 
We have grown greater in the world's applause, 
And fortune's newer smiles surpass the old — 

But thankful for all things that come as alms 
From out the open hand of Providence : — 

The winter clouds and storms — the summer calms — 
The sleepless dread — the drowse of indolence. 

Let us be thankful — thankful for the prayers 

Whose gracious answers were long, long delayed, 

That they might fall upon us unawares, 
And bless us, as in greater need we prayed. 
225 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Let us be thankful for the loyal hand 

That love held out in welcome to our own, 

When love and only love could understand 
The need of touches we had never known. 

Let us be thankful for the longing eyes 
That gave their secret to us as they wept, 

Yet in return found, with a sweet surprise, 
Love's touch upon their lids, and, smiling, slept. 

And let us, too, be thankful that the tears 
Of sorrow have not all been drained away, 

That through them still, for all the coming years, 
We may look on the dead face of To-day. 



i/p A Ditty of No Tone — 

-IT 

Piped to the Spirit of John Keats 



T \ TOULD that my lips might pour out in thy praise 

* * A fitting melody — an air sublime, — 
A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze — 

The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme: 
A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed 
With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers 
Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of — 
Such thoughts as might be hymned 
To thee from this midsummer land of ours 

Through shower and sunshine, blent for very love. 



226 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough 

Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill 
Of best-remembered birds hath something new 

In cadence for the hearing — lingering still 
Through all the open day that lies beyond; 

Reaches of pasture-lands, vine-wreathen oaks, 
Majestic still in pathos of decay; — 
The road — the wayside pond 

Wherein the dragon-fly an instant soaks 
His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away. 

And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould, 

Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long 
Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold, 

And braid them in the meshes of my song; 
And with them I would tangle wheat and rye, 

And wisps of greenest grass the katydid 
Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily, 
As harvest-hands went by; 

And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid, 

A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee. 



M 



180 A Dream of Autumn 

ELLOW hazes, lowly trailing 
Over wood and meadow, veiling 
Somber skies, with wild-fowl sailing 

Sailor-like to foreign lands; 
And the north-wind overleaping 
Summer's brink, and flood-like sweeping 
Wrecks of roses where the weeping- 
Willows wring their helpless hands. 
227 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Flared, like Titan torches flinging 
Flakes of flame and embers, springing 
From the vale, the trees stand swinging 

In the moaning atmosphere; 
While in dead'ning lands the lowing 
Of the cattle, sadder growing, 
Fills the sense to overflowing 

With the sorrow of the year. 

Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter 
Sings the brook in rippled meter 
Under boughs that lithely teeter 

Lorn birds, answering from the shores 
Through the viny, shady-shiny 
Interspaces, shot with tiny 
Flying motes that fleck the winy 

Wave-engraven sycamores. 

Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled 
With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled 
Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled 

Over Harvest's battle-plain; 
And the sudden whir and whistle 
Of the quail that, like a missile, 
Whizzes over thorn and thistle, 

And, a missile, drops again. 

Muffled voices, hid in thickets 
Where the redbird stops to stick its 
Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets 
Of the truant's rustic trap; 

228 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the sound of laughter ringing 
Where, within the wild vine swinging, 
Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging 
Purple clusters in her lap. 

Rich as wine, the sunset flashes 
Round the tilted world, and dashes 
Up the sloping west, and splashes 

Red foam over sky and sea- 
Till my dream of Autumn, paling 
In the splendor all-prevailing, 
Like a sallow leaf goes sailing 

Down the silence solemnly. 



181 Robert Burns Wilson 

\ \ THAT intuition named thee ?— Through what thrill 
* * Of the awed soul came the command divine 
Into the mother-heart, foretelling thine 
Should palpitate with his whose raptures will 
Sing on while daisies bloom and lavrocks trill 
Their undulating ways up through the fine 
Fair mists of heavenly reaches? Thy pure line 
Falls as the dew of anthems, quiring still 
The sweeter since the Scottish singer raised 
His voice therein, and, quit of every stress 
Of earthly ache and longing and despair, 
Knew certainly each simple thing he praised 
Was no less worthy, for its lowliness, 
Than any joy of all the glory There. 
229 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
182 The Rose 

T T tossed its head at the wooing breeze ; 
-■■ And the sun, like a bashful swain, 
Beamed on it through the waving trees 

With a passion all in vain, — 
For my rose laughed in a crimson glee, 
And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 

The honey-bee came there to sing 
His love through the languid hours, 

And vaunt of his hives, as a proud old king 
Might boast of his palace-towers : 

But my rose bowed in a mockery, 

And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 

The humming-bird, like a courtier gay, 
Dipped down with a dalliant song, 

And twanged his wings through the roundelay 
Of love the whole day long: 

Yet my rose turned from his minstrelsy 

And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 

The firefly came in the twilight dim 

My red, red rose to woo — 
Till quenched was the flame of love in him, 

And the light of his lantern too, 
As my rose wept with dewdrops three 
And hid in the leaves in wait for me. 

And I said : I will cull my own sweet rose — 

Some day I will claim as mine 
The priceless worth of the flower that knows 

No change, but a bloom divine — 
230 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The bloom of a fadeless constancy 
That hides in the leaves in wait for me ! 

But time passed by in a strange disguise, 
And I marked it not, but lay 

In a lazy dream, with drowsy eyes, 
Till the summer slipped away, 

And a chill wind sang in a minor key : 

"Where is the rose that waits for thee?" 

I dream to-day, o'er a purple stain 
Of bloom on a withered stalk, 

Pelted down by the autumn rain 
In the dust of the garden-walk, 

That an Angel-rose in the world to be 

Will hide in the leaves in wait for me. 



183 Elizabeth 

May 1, 1891 

T^LIZABETH! Elizabeth! 
•■— ' The first May-morning whispereth 
Thy gentle name in every breeze 
That lispeth through the young-leaved trees, 
New raimented in white and green 
Of bloom and leaf to crown thee queen; — 
And, as in odorous chorus, all 
The orchard-blossoms sweetly call 
Even as a singing voice that saith, 
Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! 
231 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Elizabeth ! Lo, lily-fair, 

In deep, cool shadows of thy hair, 

Thy face maintaineth its repose. — 

Is it, O sister of the rose, 

So better, sweeter, blooming thus 

Than in this briery world with us? — 

Where frost o'ertaketh, and the breath 

Of biting winter harrieth 
With sleeted rains and blighting snows 
All fairest blooms — Elizabeth! 

Nay, then ! — So reign, Elizabeth, 
Crowned, in thy May-day realm of death ! 
Put forth the scepter of thy love 
In every star-tipped blossom of 
The grassy dais of thy throne ! 

Q AA K 'hi 1 

badder are we, thus left alone, 
But gladder they that thrill to see 
Thy mother's rapture, greeting thee. 
Bereaved are we by life — not death — 
Elizabeth ! Elizabeth ! 



184 The Wandering Jew 

* I ^HE stars are failing, and the sky 
■*• Is like a field of faded flowers; 
The winds on weary wings go by ; 
The moon hides, and the tempest lowers ; 
And still through every clime and age 
I wander on a pilgrimage 
That all men know an idle quest, 
For that the goal I seek is— rest! 
222 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I hear the voice of summer streams, 

And, following, I find the brink 
Of cooling springs, with childish dreams 
Returning as I bend to drink' — 

But suddenly, with startled eyes, 
My face looks on its grim disguise 
Of long gray beard; and so, distressed, 
I hasten on, nor taste of rest. 

I come upon a merry group 

Of children in the dusky wood, 
Who answer back the owlet's whoop, 
That laughs as it had understood; 
And I would pause a little space, 
But that each happy blossom-face 
Is like to one His hands have blessed 
Who sent me forth in search of rest. 

Sometimes I fain would stay my feet 
In shady lanes, where huddled kine 
Couch in the grasses cool and sweet, 
And lift their patient eyes to mine ; 
But I, for thoughts that ever then 
Go back to Bethlehem again, 
Must needs fare on my weary quest, 
And weep for very need of rest. 

Is there no end? I plead in vain: 
Lost worlds nor living answer me. 

Since Pontius Pilate's awful reign 
Have I not passed eternity? 

233 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Have I not drunk the fetid breath 

Of every fevered phase of death, 

And come unscathed through every pest 

And scourge and plague that promised rest? 

Have I not seen the stars go out 

That shed their light o'er Galilee, 
And mighty kingdoms tossed about 
And crumbled clod-like in the sea? 
Dead ashes of dead ages blow 
And cover me like drifting snow, 
And time laughs on as 'twere a jest 
That I have any need of rest. 



185 The Cyclone 

CO lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn 
~ In conference with themselves. — Intense — intense 
Seemed everything ; — the summer splendor on 
The sight, — magnificence ! 

A babe's life might not lighter fail and die 

Than failed the sunlight. — Though the hour was noon, 

The palm of midnight might not lighter lie 
Upon the brow of June. 

With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings 
Of swallows— gone the instant afterward — 

While from the elms there came strange twitterings, 
Stilled scarce ere they were heard. 
234 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The river seemed to shiver; and, far down 
Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores 

Lean inward closer, under the vast frown 
That weighed above the shores. 

Then was a roar, born of some awful burst ! . 

And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path- 
Flung — he or I— out of some space accurst 

As of Jehovah's wrath : 

Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer, 
Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done, 

And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there, 
The birds sang in the sun. 



TI 



186 To the Serenader 

N INKLE on, O sweet guitar, 
Let the dancing fingers 
Loiter where the low notes are 

Blended with the singer's : 
Let the midnight pour the moon's 

Mellow wine of glory 
Down upon him through the tune's 
Old romantic story! 

I am listening, my love, 
Through the cautious lattice, 

Wondering why the stars above 
All are blinking at us ; 
235 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Wondering if his eyes from there 
Catch the moonbeam's shimmer 

As it lights the robe I wear 
With a ghostly glimmer. 

Lilt thy song, and lute away 

In the wildest fashion : — 
Pour thy rippling roundelay 

O'er the heights of passion ! — 
Flash it down the fretted strings 

Till thy mad lips, missing 
All but smothered whisperings, 

Press this rose I'm kissing. 



18/ The Curse of the Wandering Foot 

A LL hope of rest withdrawn me ! — 
■**- What dread command hath put 
This awful curse upon me — 

The curse of the wandering foot? 
Forward and backward and thither, 

And hither and yon again — 
Wandering ever! And whither? 

Answer them, God ! Amen. 



The blue skies are far o'er me — 
The bleak fields near below : 

Where the mother that bore me? — 
Where her grave in the snow ? — 

236 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Glad in her trough of a coffin— 

The sad eyes frozen shut 
That wept so often, often, 

The curse of the wandering foot ! 

Here in your marts I care not 

Whatsoever ye think. 
Good folk many who dare not 

Give me to eat and drink : 
Give me to sup of your pity — 

Feast me on prayers !— O ye, 
Met I your Christ in the city, 

He would fare forth with me — 

Forward and onward and thither, 

And hither again and yon, 
With milk for our drink together 

And honey to feed upon — - 
Nor hope of rest withdrawn us, 

Since the one Father put 
The blessed curse upon us — 

The curse of the wandering foot. 

188 A Wraith of Summer-time 

X N its color, shade and shine, 
A 'Twas a summer warm as wine, 
With an effervescent flavoring of flowered 

bough and vine, 
And a fragrance and a taste 
Of ripe roses gone to waste, 
And a dreamy sense of sun- and moon- and 

star-light interlaced. 
237 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

'Twas a summer such as broods 

O'er enchanted solitudes, 

Where the hand of Fancy leads us through 

voluptuary moods, 
And with lavish love outpours 
All the wealth of out-of-doors, 
And woos our feet o'er velvet paths and 

honeysuckle floors. 

'Twas a summer-time long dead, — 

And its roses, white and red, 

And its reeds and water-lilies down along 

the river-bed, — 
O they all are ghostly things — 
For the ripple never sings, 
And the rocking lily never even rustles as 

it rings ! 



i8p Out of Nazareth 

" T T E shall sleep unscathed of thieves 
•*- -*■ Who loves Allah and believes." 
Thus heard one who shared the tent, 
In the far-off Orient, 
Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz — 
Nobler never loved the stars 
Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim 
Dawn his courser neighed to him ! 



238 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

He said : "Let the sands be swarmed 
With such thieves as I, and thou 

Shalt at morning rise, unharmed, 
Light as eyelash to the brow 

Of thy camel, amber-eyed, 

Ever munching either side, 

Striding still, with nestled knees, 

Through the midnight's oases. 

"Who can rob thee and thou hast 
More than this that thou hast cast 
At my feet — this dust of gold? 
Simply this and that, all told ! 
Hast thou not a treasure of 
Such a thing as men call love? 

"Can the dusky band I lead 
Rob thee of thy daily need 
Of a whiter soul, or steal 
What thy lordly prayers reveal? 
Who could be enriched of thee 
By such hoard of poverty 
As thy niggard hand pretends 
To dole me — thy worst of friends? 

Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless 
One indeed who blesses thee : 

Robbing thee, I dispossess 
But myself. — Pray thou for me !" 

He shall sleep unscathed of thieves 
Who loves Allah and believes. 

230 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
ipo Nessmuk 

T HAIL thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone 
-*■ Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry ! 

True forester thou art, and still to be, 
Even in happier fields than thou hast known. 
Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown 

Of groves delectable — "preserves" for thee — 

Ranged but by friends of thine — I name thee three : 
First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown 
With changeless laurel ; next, in Lincoln-green, 

Gold-belted, -bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; 
And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene : 
These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise, 
Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise, 

To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should. 



ipi The Ho osier Folk-Child 

r I ^HE Hoosier Folk-Child — all unsung- 

-*- Unlettered all of mind and tongue; 
Unmastered, unmolested — made 
Most wholly frank and unafraid: 
Untaught of any school — unvexed 
Of law or creed — all unperplexed — 
Unsermoned, ay, and undefiled, 
An all imperfect-perfect child — 
A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you 
And I do tardy honor to, 
And so profane the sanctities 
Of our most sacred memories. 
240 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Who, growing thus from boy to man, 
That dares not be American? 
Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz — 
Go whistle! as the Folk-Child does* 

The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not 
Much wider than the stable-lot 
Between the house and highway fence 
That bounds the home his father rents. 
His playmates mostly are the ducks 
And chickens, and the boy that "shucks 
Corn by the shock/' and talks of town, 
And whether eggs are "up" or "down/' 
And prophesies in boastful tone 
Of "owning horses of his own," 
And "being his own man," and "when 
He gets to be, what he'll do then." — 
Takes out his jack-knife dreamily 
And makes the Folk-Child two or three 
Crude corn-stalk figures, — a wee span 
Of horses and a little man. 

The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise 
And wide and round as Brownies' eyes : 
The smile they wear is ever blent 
With all-expectant wonderment, — 
On homeliest things they bend a look 
As rapt as o'er a picture-book, 
And seem to ask, whate'er befall, 
The happy reason of it all : — 
Why grass is all so glad a green, 
And leaves — and what their lispings mean ; 
241 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Why buds grow on the boughs, and why 
They burst in blossom by and by — 
As though the orchard in the breeze 
Had shook and popped its pop-corn trees, 
To lure and whet, as well they might, 
Some seven-league giant's appetite ! 

The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face 
Has scant refinement, caste or grace, — 
From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek, 
It bears the grimy water-streak 
Of rinsings such as some long rain 
Might drool across the window-pane 
Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, 
As some lorn team drives by for town. 
His brow is elfed with wispish hair, 
With tangles in it here and there, 
As though the warlocks snarled it so 
At midmirk when the moon sagged low, 
And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, 
And children moaned themselves awake, 
With fingers clutched, and starting sight 
Blind as the blackness of the night ! 

The Hoosier Folk-Child! — Rich is he 
In all the wealth of poverty! 
He owns nor title nor estate, 
Nor speech but half articulate, — 
He owns nor princely robe nor crown ; — 
Yet, draped in patched and faded brown, 
He owns the bird-songs of the hills — 
The laughter of the April rills; 
242 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And his are all the diamonds set 

In Morning's dewy coronet, — 

And his the Dusk's first minted stars 

That twinkle through the pasture-bars 

And litter all the skies at night 

With glittering scraps of silver light; — 

The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, 

In beaten gold, belongs to him. 



192 The Singer 

\ \ THILE with Ambition's hectic flame 

* * He wastes the midnight oil, 
And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, 
To rest him from his toil, — 

Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, 

Above him spreads her wings, 
And fans the embers of his lips 

To ashes as he sings. 



193 To An Importunate Ghost 

/^ ET gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost! 

^J Thou really dost annoy me with thy thin 
Impalpable transparency of grin ; 

And the vague, shadowy shape of thee almost 

Hath vext me beyond boundary and coast 

Of my broad patience. Stay thy chattering chin, 
And reel the tauntings of thy vain tongue in, 
243 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Nor tempt me further with thy vaporish boast 
That I am helpless to combat thee! Well, 

Have at thee, then ! Yet if a doom most dire 
Thou wouldst escape, flee whilst thou canst! — Revile 

Me not, Miasmic Mist! — Rank Air! retire! 
One instant longer an thou haunt'st me, I'll 

Inhale thee, O thou wraith despicable ! 



ip4 June at Woodruff 

/^VUT at Woodruff Place— afar 
^-^ From the city's glare and jar, 
With the leafy trees, instead 
Of the awnings, overhead; 
With the shadows cool and sweet, 
For the fever of the street; 
With the silence, like a prayer, 
Breathing round us everywhere. 

Gracious anchorage, at last, 
From the billows of the vast 
Tide of life that comes and goes, 
Whence and where nobody knows — 
Moving, like a skeptic's thought, 
Out of nowhere into naught. 
Touch and tame us with thy grace, 
Placid calm of Woodruff Place ! 

Weave a wreath of beechen leaves 
For the brow that throbs and grieves 
O'er the ledger, bloody-lined, 
'Neath the sunstruck window-blind! 
244 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Send the breath of woodland bloom 
Through the sick man's prison-room, 
Till his old farm-home shall swim 
Sweet in mind to hearten him! 

Out at Woodruff Place the Muse 
Dips her sandal in the dews, 
Sacredly as night and dawn 
Baptize lilied grove and lawn : 
Woody path, or paven way — 
She doth haunt them night and day, — 
Sun or moonlight through the trees, 
To her eyes, are melodies. 

Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear 
Through night-scenes, are songs to her- 
Tinted lilts and choiring hues, 
Blent with children's glad halloos; 
Then belated lays that fade 
Into midnight's serenade — 
Vine-like words and zithern-strings 
Twined through all her slumberings. 

Blessed be each hearthstone set 
Neighboring the violet ! 
Blessed every roof-tree prayed 
Over by the beech's shade ! 
Blessed doorway, opening where 
We may look on Nature — there 
I land to hand and face to face — 
Storied realm, or Woodruff Place. 

-345 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
195 Envoy 

JUST as of old ! The world rolls on and on ; 
The day dies into night — night into dawn — 
Dawn into dusk — through centuries untold. — 
Just as of old. 

Time loiters not. The river ever flows, 
Its brink or white with blossoms or with snows ; 
Its tide or warm with spring or winter cold : 
Just as of old. 

Lo ! where is the beginning, where the end 
Of living, loving, longing? Listen, friend! — 
God answers with a silence of pure gold — 
Just as of old. 



546 



ARMAZINDY 



ipd The Little Red Ribbon 

r I ^HE little red ribbon, the ring and the rose! 

-** The summer-time comes, and the summer-time goes- 
And never a blossom in all of the land 
As white as the gleam of her beckoning hand ! 

The long winter months, and the glare of the snows ; 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! 
And never a glimmer of sun in the skies 
As bright as the light of her glorious eyes ! 

Dreams only are true; but they fade and are gone — 
For her face is not here when I waken at dawn ; 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose 
Mine only; hers only the dream and repose. 

I am weary of waiting, and weary of tears, 
And my heart wearies, too, all these desolate years, 
Moaning over the one only song that it knows, — 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! 



247 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

ip? A Poor Man's Wealth 

A POOR man? Yes, I must confess — 
■*■ *■ No wealth of gold do I possess ; 
No pastures fine, with grazing kine, 
Nor fields of waving grain are mine; 
No foot of fat or fallow land 
Where rightfully my feet may stand 
The while I claim it as my own — 
By deed and title, mine alone. 

Ah, poor indeed! perhaps you say — 
But spare me your compassion, pray ! — 
When I ride not — with you — I walk 
In Nature's company, and talk 
With one who will not slight or slur 
The child forever dear to her — 
And one who answers back, be sure, 
With smile for smile, though I am poor. 

And while communing thus, I count 
An inner wealth of large amount, — 
The wealth of honest purpose blent 
With Penury's environment, — 
The wealth of owing naught to-day 
But debts that I would gladly pay, 
With wealth of thanks still unexpressed 
With cumulative interest. — 

A wealth of patience and content — 
For all my ways improvident; 
A faith still fondly exercised — 
For all my plans unrealized; 
248 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

A wealth of promises that still, 
Howe'er I fail, I hope to fill; 
A wealth of charity for those 
Who pity me my ragged clothes. 

A poor man? Yes, I must confess — 
No wealth of gold do I possess ; 
No pastures fine, with grazing kine, 
Nor fields of waving grain are mine ; 
But ah, my friend ! I've wealth, no end ! 
For millionaires might condescend 
To bend the knee and envy me 
This opulence of poverty. 



ip8 To Edgar Wilson Nye 

f~\ "WILLIAM,"— in thy blithe companionship 
^^ What liberty is mine — what sweet release 

From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace! 
Ho ! ho ! it is thy fancy's finger-tip 
That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip 

That scarce may sing, in all this glad increase 

Of merriment ! So, pray-thee, do not cease 
To cheer me thus ; — for, underneath the quip 
Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret 

Of all distress is stilled — no syllable 
Of sorrow vexeth me — no teardrops wet 

My teeming lids save those that leap to tell 
Thee thou \st a guest that overweepeth, yet 

Only because thou jokest over well. 
249 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

igp The Silent Victors 

May 30, 1878 

"Dying for victory, cheer on cheer 
Thundered on his eager ear." 

— Charles L. Holstein. 



T^V EEP, tender, firm and true, the Nation's heart 
*^* Throbs for her gallant heroes passed away, 
Who in grim Battle's drama played their part, 
And slumber here to-day. — 

Warm hearts that beat their lives out at the shrine 
Of Freedom, while our country held its breath 

As brave battalions wheeled themselves in line 
And marched upon their death : 

When Freedom's Flag, its natal wounds scarce healed, 
Was torn from peaceful winds and flung again 

To shudder in the storm of battle-field — 
The elements of men, — 

When every star that glittered was a mark 
For Treason's ball, and every rippling bar 

Of red and white was sullied with the dark 
And purple stain of war: 

When angry guns, like famished beasts of prey, 
Were howling o'er their gory feast of lives, 

And sending dismal echoes far away 
To mothers, maids, and wives : — 
250 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The mother, kneeling in the empty night, 
With pleading hands uplifted for the son 

Who, even as she prayed, had fought the fight — 
The victory had won: 

The wife, with trembling hand that wrote to say 
The babe was waiting for the sire's caress — 

The letter meeting that upon the way, — 
The babe was fatherless : 

The maiden, with her lips, in fancy, pressed 
Against the brow once dewy with her breath, 

Now lying numb, unknown, and uncaressed 
Save by the dews of death. 






ii 



What meed of tribute can the poet pay 
The Soldier, but to trail the ivy-vine 

Of idle rhyme above his grave to-day 
In epitaph design? — 

Or wreathe with laurel-words the icy brows 
That ache no longer with a dream of fame, 

But, pillowed lowly in the narrow house, 
Renown'd beyond the name. 

The dewy tear-drops of the night may fall, 
And tender morning with her shining hand 

May brush them from the grasses green and tall 
That undulate the land. — 

251 . 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Yet song of Peace nor din of toil and thrift, 
Nor chanted honors, with the flowers we heap, 

Can yield us hope the Hero's head to lift 
Out of its dreamless sleep: 

The dear old flag, whose faintest flutter flies 
A stirring echo through each patriot breast, 

Can never coax to life the folded eyes 
That saw its wrongs redressed— 

That watched it waver when the fight was hot, 
And blazed with newer courage to its aid, 

Regardless of the shower of shell and shot 
Through which the charge was made ; — 

And when, at last, they saw it plume its wings, 
Like some proud bird in stormy element, 

And soar untrammeled on its wanderings, 
They closed in death, content. 



in 



O mother, you who miss the smiling face 

Of that dear boy who vanished from your sight, 

And left you weeping o'er the vacant place 
He used to fill at night, — 

Who left you dazed, bewildered, on a day 
That echoed wild huzzas, and roar of guns 

That drowned the farewell words you tried to say 
To incoherent ones ; — 

252 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Be glad and proud you had the life to give — 
Be comforted through all the years to come, — 

Your country has a longer life to live, . 
Your son a better home. 

widow, weeping o'er the orphaned child, 
Who only lifts his questioning eyes to send 

A keener pang to grief unreconciled, — 
Teach him to comprehend 

He had a father brave enough to stand 
Before the fire of Treason's blazing gun, 

That, dying, he might will the rich old land 
Of Freedom to his son. 

And, maiden, living on through lonely years 

In fealty to love's enduring ties, — 
With strong faith gleaming through the tender tears 

That gather in your eyes, 

Look up! and own, in gratefulness of prayer, 
Submission to the will of Heaven's High Host : — 

1 see your Angel-soldier pacing there, 
Expectant at his post. — 

I see the rank and file of armies vast, 
That muster under one supreme control ; 

I hear the trumpet sound the signal-blast — 
The calling of the roll — 



2$3 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The grand divisions falling into line 
And forming, under voice of One alone 

Who gives command, and joins with tongue divine 
The hymn that shakes the Throne. 



IV 



And thus, in tribute to the forms that rest 

In their last camping-ground, we strew the bloom 

And fragrance of the flowers they loved the best, 
In silence o'er the tomb. 

With reverent hands we twine the Hero's wreath 
And clasp it tenderly on stake or stone 

That stands the sentinel for each beneath 
Whose glory is our own. 

While in the violet that greets the sun, 
We see the azure eye of some lost boy; 

And in the rose the ruddy cheek of one 
We kissed in childish joy, — 

Recalling, haply, when he marched away, 

He laughed his loudest though his eyes were wet- 

The kiss he gave his mother's brow that day 
Is there and burning yet : 

And through the storm of grief around her tossed, 
One ray of saddest comfort she may see, — 

Four hundred thousand sons like hers were lost 
To weeping Liberty. 

254 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But draw aside the drapery of gloom, 
And let the sunshine chase the clouds away 

And gild with brighter glory every tomb 
We decorate to-day: 

And in the holy silence reigning round, 
While prayers of perfume bless the atmosphere, 

Where loyal souls of love and faith are found, 
Thank God that Peace is here ! 

And let each angry impulse that may start, 
Be smothered out of every loyal breast; 

And, rocked within the cradle of the heart, 
Let every sorrow rest. 



200 An Old-Timer 

T T ERE where the wayward stream 
■*■■** Is restful as a dream, 

And where the banks o'erlook 
A pool from out whose deeps 
My pleased face upward peeps, 
I cast my hook. 

Silence and sunshine blent! — 
A Sabbath-like content 

Of wood and wave; — a free- 
Hand landscape grandly wrought 
Of Summer's brightest thought 
And mastery. — - 
255 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

For here form, light and shade, 
And color — all are laid 

With skill so rarely fine, 
The eye may even see 
The ripple tremblingly 

Lip at the line. 

I mark the dragon-fly 
Flit waveringly by 

In ever-veering flight, 
Till, in a hush profound, 
I see him eddy round 

The "cork" and — 'light ! 

Ho ! with the boy's faith then 
Brimming my heart again, 

And knowing, soon or late, 
The "nibble" yet shall roll 
Its thrills along the pole, 

I — breathless — wait. 



20i What Redress 

T PRAY you, do not use this thing 
-*■ For vengeance; but if questioning 
What wound, when dealt your humankind, 
Goes deepest,— surely he will find 
Who wrongs you, loving him no less— 
There's nothing hurts like tenderness, 

256. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
202 The Old School-Chum 



H 



E puts the poem by, to say 

His eyes are not themselves to-day ! 



A sudden glamour o'er his sight — 
A something vague, indefinite — 

An oft-recurring blur that blinds 
The printed meaning of the lines, 

And leaves the mind all dusk and dim 
In swimming darkness — strange to him ! 

It is not childishness, I guess, — 
Yet something of the tenderness 

That used to wet his lashes when 
A boy seems troubling him again ; — 

The old emotion, sweet and wild, 
That drove him truant when a child, 

That he might hide the tears that fell 
Above the lesson— "Little Nell." 

And so it is he puts aside 
The poem he has vainly tried 

To follow ; and, as one who sighs 
In failure, through a poor disguise 

Of smiles, he dries his tears, to say 
His eyes are not themselves to-day. 

257 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
203 Three Singing Friends 



LEE O. HARRIS 

OCHOOLMASTER and Songmaster! Memory 
^ Enshrines thee with an equal love for thy 

Duality of gifts, — thy pure and high 
Endowments — Learning rare, and Poesy. 
These were as mutual handmaids, serving thee, 

Throughout all seasons of the years gone by, 

With all enduring joys 'twixt earth and sky — 
In turn shared nobly with thy friends and me. 
Thus is it that thy clear song, ringing on, 

Is endless inspiration, fresh and free 
As the old Mays at verge of June sunshine; 
And musical as then, at dewy dawn, 

The robin hailed us, and all twinklingly 

Our one path wandered under wood and vine. 



11 



BENJ. S. PARKER 

Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light 
And shadow mystical as some dreamland 
Arched with unfathomed azure — vast and grand 
With splendor of the morn ; or dazzling bright 
With orient noon ; or strewn with stars of night 



2*8 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Thick as the daisies blown in grasses fanned 
By odorous midsummer breezes and 
Showered over by all bird-songs exquisite. 
This is thy voice's beatific art — 
To make melodious all things below, 

Calling through them, from far, diviner space 
Thy clearer hail to us. — The faltering heart 
Thou cheerest; and thy fellow-mortal so 
Fares onward under Heaven with lifted face. 



in 



JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS 

Bard of our Western world! — its prairies wide, 
With edging woods, lost creeks and hidden ways ; 
Its isolated farms, with roundelays 

Of orchard warblers heard on every side ; 

Its cross-road school-house, wherein still abide 
Thy fondest memories, — since there thy gaze 
First fell on classic verse ; and thou, in praise 

Of that, didst find thine own song glorified. 

So singing, smite the strings and counterchange 
The lucently melodious drippings of 

Thy happy harp, from airs of "Tempe Vale," 

To chirp and trill of lowliest flight and range, 
In praise of our To-day and home and love — 
Thou meadow-lark no less than nightingale. 



259 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
204 The Song I Never Sing 

AS when in dreams we sometimes hear 
-*•*• A melody so faint and fine 
And musically sweet and clear, 
It flavors all the atmosphere 
With harmony divine, — 

So, often in my waking dreams, 
I hear a melody that seems 
Like fairy voices whispering 
To me the song I never sing. 

Sometimes when brooding o'er the years 

My lavish youth has thrown away — 
When all the glowing past appears 
But as a mirage that my tears 
Have crumbled to decay, — 
I thrill to find the ache and pain 
Of my remorse is stilled again, 
As, forward bent and listening, 
I hear the song I never sing. 

A murmuring of rhythmic words, 

Adrift on tunes whose currents flow 
Melodious with the trill of birds, 
And far-off lowing of the herds 
In lands of long ago; 
And every sound the truant loves 
Comes to me like the coo of doves 
When first in blooming fields of Spring 
I heard the song I never sing. 



260 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The echoes of old voices, wound 

In limpid streams of laughter where 
The river Time runs bubble-crowned, 
And giddy eddies ripple round 
The lilies growing there; 

Where roses, bending o'er the brink, 
Drain their own kisses as they drink, 
And ivies climb and twine and cling 
About the song I never sing. 

An ocean-surge of sound that falls 

As though a tide of Heavenly art 
Had tempested the gleaming halls 
And crested o'er the golden walls 
In showers on my heart. . . . 

Thus — thus, with open arms and eyes 
Uplifted toward the alien skies, 
Forgetting every earthly thing, 
I hear the song I never sing. 

O nameless lay, sing clear and strong, 

Pour down thy melody divine 
Till purifying floods of song 
Have washed away the stains of wrong 
That dim this soul of mine ! 
O woo me near and nearer thee, 
Till my glad lips may catch the key, 
And, with a voice unwavering, 
Join in the song I never sing. 



261 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
205 Little David 

r I ^HE mother. of the little boy that sleeps 
-■" Has blest assurance, even as she weeps : 
She knows her little boy has now no pain — 
No further ache, in body, heart or brain; 
All sorrow is lulled for him — all distress 
Passed into utter peace and restfulness. — 
All health that heretofore has been denied — 
All happiness, all hope, and all beside 
Of childish longing, now he clasps and keeps 
In voiceless joy — the little boy that sleeps. 



206 The Old Trundle-Bed 

f~^\ THE old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy! 
^^ What canopied king might not covet the joy? 
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine, 
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine : 
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light, 
But daintily drawn from its hiding at night. 
O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head, 
Was the queer little, dear little, old trundle-bed! 

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw 
The stars through the window, and listened with awe 
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept 
Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept : 
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren, 
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again, 
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led 
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle-bed. 

262 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O the old trundle-bed ! O the old trundle-bed ! 

With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread; 

Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above, 

Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love; 

The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep 

With the old fairy stories my memories keep 

Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head 

Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle-bed. 



207 The Voices 

T^\ OWN in the night I hear them : 
*^ The Voices — unknown — unguessed, — 
That whisper, and lisp, and murmur, 
And will not let me rest. — 

Voices that seem to question, 

In unknown words, of me, 
Of fabulous ventures, and hopes and dreams 

Of this and the World to be. 

Voices of mirth and music, 

As in sumptuous homes; and sounds 

Of mourning, as of gathering friends 
In country burial-grounds. 

Cadence of maiden voices — 
Their lovers' blent with these ; 

And of little children singing, 
As under orchard trees. 
263 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And often, up from the chaos 

Of my deepest dreams, I hear 
Sounds of their phantom laughter 

Filling the atmosphere : 

They call to me from the darkness ; 

They cry to me from the gloom, 
Till I start sometimes from my pillow 

And peer through the haunted room ; 

When the face of the moon at the window 

Wears a pallor like my own, 
And seems to be listening with me 

To the low, mysterious tone, — 

The low, mysterious clamor 

Of voices that seem to be 
Striving in vain to whisper 

Of secret things to me; — 

Of a something dread to be warned of; 

Of a rapture yet withheld; 
Or hints of the marvelous beauty 

Of songs unsyllabled. 

But ever and ever the meaning 

Falters and fails and dies, 
And only the silence quavers 

With the sorrow of my sighs. 

And I answer: — O Voices, ye may not 

Make me to understand 
Till my own voice, mingling with you, 

Laughs in the Shadow-land. 
264 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

208 The Lovely Child 

T ILIES are both pure and fair, 
-*-^ Growing midst the roses there — 
Roses, too, both red and pink, 
Are quite beautiful, I think. 

But of all bright blossoms — best — 
Purest — fairest — loveliest, — 
Could there be a sweeter thing 
Than a primrose, blossoming? 



209 A Good-Bye 

"(~* OOD-BYE, my friend!" 
^-^ He takes her hand — 
The pressures blend : 
They understand 

But vaguely why, with drooping eye, 
Each moans — "Good-bye ! — Good-bye !" 

"Dear friend, good-bye !" 

she could smile 
If she might cry 

A little while !— 

She says, "I ought to smile — but I — 
Forgive me — There! — Good-bye!" 

" 'Good-bye?' Ah, no: 

1 hate," says he, 
"These 'good-byes' so !" 

"And /," says she, 

"Detest them so — why, I should die. 
Were this a real 'good bye!'" 
-05 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

210 Orlie Wilde 

A GODDESS, with a siren's grace,— 
-*-*"A sun-haired girl on a craggy place 
Above a bay where fish-boats lay 
Drifting about like birds of prey. 

Wrought was she of a painter's dream — 

Wise only as are artists wise, 

My artist-friend, Rolf Herschkelhiem, 

With deep sad eyes of oversize, 

And face of melancholy guise. 

I pressed him that he tell to me 

This masterpiece's history. 

He turned — returned — and thus beguiled 

Me with the tale of Orlie Wilde :— 

"We artists live ideally : 
We breed our firmest facts of air; 
We make our own reality— 
We dream a thing and it is so. 
The fairest scenes we ever see 
Are mirages of memory; 
The sweetest thoughts we ever know 
We plagiarize from Long- Ago : 
And as the girl on canvas there 
Is marvelously rare and fair, 
'Tis only inasmuch as she 
Is dumb and may not speak to me!" 
He tapped me with his mahlstick — then 
The picture, — and went on again: 
266 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

"Orlie Wilde, the fisher's child— 
I see her yet, as fair and mild 
As ever nursling summer-day 
Dreamed on the bosom of the bay : 
For I was twenty then, and went 
Alone and long-haired — all content 
With promises of sounding name 
And fantasies of future fame, 
And thoughts that now my mind discards 
As editor a fledgling bard's. 

"At evening once I chanced to go, 
With pencil and portfolio, 
Adown the street of silver sand 
That winds beneath this craggy land, 
To make a sketch of some old scurf 
Of driftage, nosing through the surf 
A splintered mast, with knarl and strand 
Of rigging-rope and tattered threads 
Of flag and streamer and of sail 
That fluttered idly in the gale 
Or whipped themselves to sadder shreds. 
The while I wrought, half listlessly, 
On my dismantled subject, came 
A sea-bird, settling on the same 
With plaintive moan, as though that he 
Had lost his mate upon the sea ; 
And — with my melancholy trend — 
It brought dim dreams half understood — 
It wrought upon my morbid mood, — 
I thought of my own voyagings 
That had no end — that have no end. — 
267 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, like the sea-bird, I made moan 
That I was loveless and alone. 
And when at last with weary wings 
It went upon its wanderings, 
With upturned face I watched its flight 
Until this picture met my sight: 
A goddess, with a siren's grace, — 
A sun-haired girl on a craggy place 
Above a bay where fish-boats lay 
Drifting about like birds of prey. 

"In airy poise she, gazing, stood 
A matchless form of womanhood, 
That brought a thought that if for me 
Such eyes had sought across the sea, 
I could have swum the widest tide 
That ever mariner defied, 
And, at the shore, could on have gone 
To that high crag she stood upon, 
To there entreat and say, 'My Sweet, 
Behold thy servant at thy feet/ 
And to my soul I said: 'Above, 
There stands the idol of thy love!' 

"In this rapt, awed, ecstatic state 
I gazed — till lo ! I was aware 
A fisherman had joined her there — 
A weary man, with halting gait, 
Who toiled beneath a basket's weight : 
Her father, as I guessed, for she 
Had run to meet him gleefully 

268 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And ta'en his burden to herself, 

That perched upon her shoulder's shelf 

So lightly that she, tripping, neared 

A jutting crag and disappeared; 

But left the echo of a song 

That thrills me yet, and will as long 

As I have being! . . . 

. . . "Evenings came 

And went, — but each the same — the same : 

She watched above, and even so 

I stood there watching from below ; 

Till, grown so bold at last, I sung, — 

(What matter now the theme thereof !) 

It brought an answer from her tongue — 

Faint as the murmur of a dove, 

Yet all the more the song of love. . . . 

"I turned and looked upon the bay, 
With palm to forehead — eyes a-blur 
In the sea's smile — meant but for her ! — 
I saw the fish-boats far away 
In misty distance, lightly drawn 
In chalk-dots on the horizon — 
Looked back at her, long, wistfully, — 
And, pushing off an empty skiff, 
I beckoned her to quit the cliff 
And yield me her rare company 
Upon a little pleasure-cruise. — 
She stood, as loathful to refuse, 
To muse for full a moment's time, — 
Then answered back in pantomime 
269 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

'She feared some danger from the sea 
Were she discovered thus with me.' 
I motioned then to ask her if 
I might not join her on the cliff; 
And back again, with graceful wave 
Of lifted arm, she answer gave 
'She feared some danger from the sea/ 

"Impatient, piqued, impetuous, I 
Sprang in the boat, and flung 'Good-bye' 
From pouted mouth with angry hand, 
And madly pulled away from land 
With lusty stroke, despite that she 
Held out her hands entreatingly : 
And when far out, with covert eye 
I shoreward glanced, I saw her fly 
In reckless haste adown the crag, 
Her hair a-flutter like a flag 
Of gold that danced across the strand 
In little mists of silver sand. 
All curious I, pausing, tried 
To fancy what it all implied, — 
When suddenly I found my feet 
Were wet; and, underneath the seat 
On which I sat, I heard the sound 
Of gurgling waters, and I found 
The boat aleak alarmingly. . . . 
I turned and looked upon the sea, 
Whose every wave seemed mocking me ; 
I saw the fishers' sails once more — 
In dimmer distance than before; 
I saw the sea-bird wheeling by, 
270 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With foolish wish that / could fly : 

I thought of firm earth, home and friends- 

I thought of everything that tends 

To drive a man to frenzy and 

To wholly lose his own command; 

I thought of all my waywardness — 

Thought of a mother's deep distress; 

Of youthful follies yet unpurged — 

Sins, as the seas, about me surged — 

Thought of the printer's ready pen 

To-morrow drowning me again ; — 

A million things without a name — 

I thought of everything but — Fame. . , . 

"A memory yet is in my mind, 
So keenly clear and sharp-defined, 
I picture every phase and line 
Of life and death, and neither mine,— 
While some fair seraph, golden-haired, 
Bends over me, — with white arms bared, 
That strongly plait themselves about 
My drowning weight and lift me out — 
With joy too great for words to state 
Or tongue to dare articulate ! 

"And this seraphic ocean-child 
And heroine was Orlie Wilde : 
And thus it was I came to hear 
Her voice's music in my ear — 
Ay, thus it was Fate paved the way 
That I walk desolate to-day I" . . . 

271 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The artist paused and bowed his face 

Within his palms a little space, 

While reverently on his form 

I bent my gaze and marked a storm 

That shook his frame as wrathfully 

As some typhoon of agony, 

And fraught with sobs — the more profound 

For that peculiar laughing sound 

We hear when strong men weep ... I lent 

With warmest sympathy — I bent 

To stroke with soothing hand his brow, 

He murmuring — " 'Tis over now! — 

And shalM tie the silken thread 

Of my frail romance?" "Yes," I said. — 

He faintly smiled ; and then, with brow 

In kneading palm, as one in dread — 

His tasseled cap pushed from his head; — 



f 'Her voice's music/ I repeat," 
He said, — " 'twas sweet — O passing sweet ! 
Though she herself, in uttering 
Its melody, proved not the thing 
Of loveliness my dreams made meet 
For me — there, yearning, at her feet — 
Prone at her feet — a worshiper, — 
For lo! she spake a tongue," moaned he, 

"Unknown to me; — unknown to me 
As mine to her — as mine to her." 




272 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
211 When I Do Mock 

\ \ THEN I do mock the blackness of the night 

* * With my despair — outweep the very dews 
And wash my wan cheeks stark of all delight, 
Denying every counsel of dear use 
In mine embittered state ; with infinite 
Perversity, mine eyes drink in no sight 
Of pleasance that nor moon nor stars refuse 
In silver largess and gold twinklings bright; — 
I question me what mannered brain is mine 
That it doth trick me of the very food 
It panteth for — the very meat and wine 
That yet should plump my starved soul with good 
And comfortable plethora of ease, 
That I might drowse away such rhymes as these. 



212 Slumber-Song 

O LEEP, little one ! The Twilight folds her gloom 
^ Full tenderly about the drowsy Day, 
And all his tinseled hours of light and bloom 
Like toys are laid away. 

Sleep ! sleep ! The noon-sky's airy cloud of white 

Has deepened wide o'er all the azure plain ; 
And, trailing through the leaves, the skirts of Night 
Are wet with dews as rain. 

But rest thou sweetly, smiling in thy dreams, 

With round fists tossed like roses o'er thy head, 
And thy tranc'd lips and eyelids kissed with gleams 
Of rapture perfected. 
273 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

21 3 "This Dear Child-Hearted Woman 
That is Dead" 



HP HIS woman, with the dear child-heart, 

-^ Ye mourn as dead, is — where and what? 
With faith as artless as her Art, 

I question not, — 

But dare divine, and feel, and know 

Her blessedness — as hath been writ 
In allegory. — Even so 

I fashion it : — 



A stately figure, rapt and awed 

In her new guise of Angelhood, 
Still lingered, wistful — knowing God 

Was very good. — 

Her thought's fine whisper filled the pause ; 

And, listening, the Master smiled, 
And lo ! the stately angel was 

—A little child. 



214 To a Jilted Swain 

/^* ET thee back neglected friends; 
^^ And repay, as each one lends, 
Tithes of shallow-sounding glee 
Or keen-ringing raillery : 
274 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Get thee from lone vigils; be 
But in jocund company, 
Where is laughter and acclaim 
Boisterous above the name. — 
Get where sulking husbands sip 
Ale-house cheer, with pipe at lip ; 
And where Mol the barmaid saith 
Curst is she that marrieth. 



215 The Frog 

\\T HO am I but the Frog— the Frog ! 

* * My realm is the dark bayou, 
And my throne is the muddy and moss-grown log 

That the poison-vine clings to — 
And the blacksnakes slide in the slimy tide 
Where the ghost of the moon looks blue. 

What am I but a King — a King ! — 

For the royal robes I wear — 
A sceptre, too, and a signet-ring, 

As vassals and serfs declare : 
And a voice, god wot, that is equaled not 

In the wide world anywhere ! 

I can talk to the Night— the Night !— 

Under her big black wing 
She tells me the tale of the world outright. 

And the secret of everything 5 
For she knows you all, from the time you crawl, 

To the doom that death will bring. 
-75 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The Storm swoops down, and he blows— and blows, — 

While I drum on his swollen cheek, 
And croak in his angered eye that glows 

With the lurid lightning's streak; 
While the rushes drown in the watery frown 

That his bursting passions leak. 

And I can see through the sky — the sky — 

As clear as a piece of glass; 
And I can tell you the how and why 

Of the things that come to pass — 
And whether the dead are there instead, 

Or under the graveyard grass. 

To your Sovereign lord all hail — all hail ! — 

To your Prince on his throne so grim ! 
Let the moon swing low, and the high stars trail 

Their heads in the dust to him; 
And the wide world sing : Long live the King, 

And grace to his royal whim ! 



216 Out of the Hitherwhere 

S~\ UT of the hitherwhere into the yon — 
^-^ The land that the Lord's love rests upon; 
Where one may rely on the friends he meets, 
And the smiles that greet him along the streets : 
Where the mother that left you years ago 
Will lift the hands that were folded so, 
And put them about you, with all the love 
And tenderness you are dreaming of. 
276 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Out of the hitherwhere into the yon — 

Where all of the friends of your youth have gone,- 

Where the old schoolmate that laughed with you. 

Will laugh again as he used to do, 

Running to meet you, with such a face 

As lights like a moon the wondrous place 

Where God is living, and glad to live, 

Since He is the Master and may forgive. 

Out of the hitherwhere into the yon ! — 

Stay the hopes we are leaning on — 

You, Divine, with Your merciful eyes 

Looking down from the far-away skies, — 

Smile upon us, and reach and take 

Our worn souls Home for the old home's sake. — 

And so Amen, — for our all seems gone 

Out of the hitherwhere into the yon. 



217 My Bride That is to Be 

(^\ SOUL of mine, look out and see 
^-^ My bride, my bride that is to be ! — 

Reach out with mad, impatient hands, 
And draw aside futurity 
As one might draw a veil aside — 

And so unveil her where she stands 
Madonna-like and glorified — 

The queen of undiscovered lands 
Of love, to where she beckons me — 
My bride — my bride that is to be. 
277 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The shadow of a willow-tree 
That wavers on a garden-wall 
In summer-time may never fall 
In attitude as gracefully 
As my fair bride that is to be ; — 

Nor ever Autumn's leaves of brown 
As lightly flutter to the lawn 
As fall her fairy-feet upon 

The path of love she loiters down. — 
O'er drops of dew she walks, and yet 
Not one may stain her sandal wet — 
Ay, she might dance upon the way 
Nor crush a single drop to spray, 
So airy-like she seems to me, — 
My bride, my bride that is to be. 

I know not if her eyes are light 
As summer skies or dark as night, — 
I only know that they are dim 
With mystery : In vain I peer 
To make their hidden meaning clear, 
While o'er their surface, like a tear 
That ripples to the silken brim, 
A look of longing seems to swim 
All worn and weary-like to me; 
And then, as suddenly, my sight 
Is blinded with a smile so bright, 
Through folded lids I still may see 
My bride, my bride that is to be. 



278 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Her face is like a night of June 
Upon whose brow the crescent-moon 
Hangs pendent in a diadem 
Of stars, with envy lighting them. — 

And, like a wild cascade, her hair 
Floods neck and shoulder, arm and wrist, 
Till only through a gleaming mist 

I seem to see a Siren there, 
With lips of love and melody 

And open arms and heaving breast 

Wherein I fling myself to rest, 
The while my heart cries hopelessly 
For my fair bride that is to be. 



Nay, foolish heart and blinded eyes ! 
My bride hath need of no disguise. — 

But, rather, let her come to me 
In such a form as bent above 

My pillow when, in infancy, 
I knew not anything but love. — 
O let her come from out the lands 

Of Womanhood — not fairy isles, — 
And let her come with Woman's hands 

And Woman's eyes of tears and smiles,- 
With Woman's hopefulness and grace 
Of patience lighting up her face : 
And let her diadem be wrought 
Of kindly deed and prayerful thought, 



379 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

That ever over all distress 
May beam the light of cheerfulness.- 
And let her feet be brave to fare 
The labyrinths of doubt and care, 
That, following, my own may find 
The path to Heaven God designed. — 
O let her come like this to me^- 
My bride — my bride that is to be. 



218 Through Sleepy-Land 

\\T HERE do you go when you go to sleep, 
V * Little Boy! Little Boy! where? 
'Way — 'way in where's Little Bo-Peep, 
And Little Boy Blue, and the Cows and Sheep 
A-wandering 'way in there — in there — 
A-wandering 'way in there ! 

And what do you see when lost in dreams, 

Little Boy, 'way in there? 
Firefly-glimmers and glow-worm gleams, 
And silvery, low, slow-sliding streams, 

And mermaids, smiling out — 'way in where 
They're a-hiding — 'way in there ! 

Where do you go when the Fairies call, 

Little Boy! Little Boy! where? 
Wade through the dews of the grasses tall, 
Hearing the weir and the waterfall 
And the Wee-Folk — 'way in there — in there — 
And the Kelpies — 'way in there ! 
280 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And what do you do when you wake at dawn, 

Little Boy! Little Boy! what? 
Hug my Mommy and kiss her on 
Her smiling eyelids, sweet and wan, 
And tell her everything I've forgot 
A-wandering 'way in there — in there — 
Through the blind-world 'way in there ! 



2ip He and I 

JUST drifting on together — 
He and I— 
As through the balmy weather 
Of July 
Drift two thistle-tufts imbedded 
Each in each — by zephyrs wedded — 
Touring upward, giddy-headed, 
For the sky. 

And, veering up and onward, 

Do we seem 
Forever drifting dawnward 
In a dream, 
Where we meet song-birds that know us, 
And the winds their kisses blow us, 
While the years flow far below us 
Like a stream. 

And we are happy — very — 

He and I— 
Aye, even glad and merry 

Though on high 
281 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The heavens are sometimes shrouded 
By the midnight storm, and clouded 
Till the pallid moon is crowded 
From the sky. 

My spirit ne'er expresses 

Any choice 
But to clothe him with caresses 
And rejoice; 
And as he laughs, it is in 
Such a tone the moonbeams glisten 
And the stars come out to listen 
To his voice. 

And so, whate'er the weather, 

He and I, — 
With our lives linked thus together, 
Float and fly 
As two thistle-tufts imbedded 
Each in each — by zephyrs wedded- 
Touring upward, giddy-headed, 
For the sky. 



220 The Yellowbird 

T T EY ! my little Yellowbird, 
■^ -*■ What you doing there? 
Like a flashing sun-ray, 

Flitting everywhere : 
Dangling down the tall weeds 
282 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the hollyhocks, 
And the lordly sunflowers 
Along the garden-walks. 

Ho! my gallant Golden-bill, 

Pecking 'mongst the weeds, 
You must have for breakfast 

Golden flower-seeds : 
Won't you tell a little fellow 

What you have for tea? — 
'Spect a peck o' yellow, mellow 

Pippin on the tree. 



221 The Blind Girl 

T F I might see his face to-day ! — 
-*- He is so happy now !— To hear 
His laugh is like a roundelay — 

So ringing-sweet and clear ! 
His step — I heard it long before 
He bounded through the open door 
To tell his marriage. — Ah ! so kind — 
So good he is ! — And I — so blind ! 

But thus he always came to me — 
Me, first of all, he used to bring 
His sorrow to — his ecstasy — 
His hopes and everything; 
And if I joyed with him or wept, 
It was not long the music slept, — 
And if he sung, or if T played — 
Or both, — we were the braver made. 

2%?> 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I grew to know and understand 

His every word at every call, — 
The gate-latch hinted, and his hand 

In mine confessed it all : 
He need not speak one word to me — 
He need not sigh — I need not see, — 
But just the one touch of his palm, 
And I would answer— song or psalm. 

He wanted recognition — name — 

He hungered so for higher things,— 
The altitudes of power and fame, 

And all that fortune brings : 
Till, with his great heart fevered thus, 
And aching as impetuous, 
I almost wished sometimes that he 
Were blind and patient made, like me. 

But he has won ! — I knew he would. — 

Once in the mighty Eastern mart, 
I knew his music only could 

Be sung in every heart ! 
And when he proudly sent me this 
From out the great metropolis, 
I bent above the graven score 
And, weeping, kissed it o'er and o'er. — 

And yet not blither sing the birds 
Than this glad melody, — the tune 

As sweetly wedded with the words 
As flowers with middle-June; 

284 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Had he not told me, I had known 
It was composed of love alone — 
His love for her. — And she can see 
His happy face eternally! — 

While / — O God, forgive, I pray ! — 

Forgive me that I did so long 
To look upon his face to-day ! — 
I know the wish was wrong.— 
Yea, I am thankful that my sight 
Is shielded safe from such delight : — 
I can pray better, with this blur 
Of blindness — both for him and her. 



222 Dreamer, Say 

T~\ REAMER, say, will you dream for me 
*^* A wild sweet dream of a foreign land, 
Whose border sips of a foaming sea 

With lips of coral and silver sand; 
Where warm winds loll on the shady deeps, 

Or lave themselves in the tearful mist 
The great wild wave of the breaker weeps 

O'er crags of opal and amethyst? 

Dreamer, say, will you dream a dream 
Of tropic shades in the lands of shine, 

Where the lily leans o'er an amber stream 
That flows like a rill of wasted wine, — 

285 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Where the palm-trees, lifting their shields of green, 

Parry the shafts of the Indian sun 
Whose splintering vengeance falls between 

The reeds below where the waters run? 

Dreamer, say, will you dream of love 

That lives in a land of sweet perfume, 
Where the stars drip down from the skies above 

In molten spatters of bud and bloom? 
Where never the weary eyes are wet, 

And never a sob in the balmy air, 
And only the laugh of the paroquet 

Breaks the sleep of the silence there? 



223 An Empty Glove 



AN empty glove — long withering in the grasp 
-*■** Of Time's cold palm. I lift it to my lips,- 
And lo, once more I thrill beneath its clasp, 
In fancy, as with odorous finger-tips 

It reaches from the years that used to be 
And proffers back love, life and all, to me. 



11 



Ah! beautiful she was beyond belief: 
Her face was fair and lustrous as the moon's ; 

Her eyes— too large for small delight or grief, — 
The smiles of them were Laughter's afternoons ; 
286 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Their tears were April showers, and their love — 
All sweetest speech swoons ere it speaks thereof. 



White-fruited cocoa shown against the shell 
Were not so white as was her brow below 
The cloven tresses of the hair that fell 
Across her neck and shoulders of nude snow; 
Her cheeks — chaste pallor, with a crimson stain— 
Her mouth was like a red rose rinsed with rain. 



And this was she my fancy held as good — 

As fair and lovable — in every wise 
As peerless in pure worth of womanhood 

As was her wondrous beauty in men's eyes. — 
Yet, all alone, I kiss this empty glove — 
The poor husk of the hand I loved — and love. 



224. Our Own 

HP HEY walk here with us, hand-in-hand; 

■^ We gossip, knee-by-knee; 
They tell us all that they have planned — 

Of all their joys to be, — 
And, laughing, leave us : And, to-day, 

All desolate we cry 
Across wide waves of voiceless graves — 
Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Good-bye ! 
287 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

22 j Leonainie 

T EONAINIE— Angels named her; 
-■— * And they took the light 
Of the laughing stars and framed her 
In; a smile of white; 

And they made her hair of gloomy 
Midnight, and her eyes of bloomy 
Moonshine, and they brought her to me 
In the solemn night. — 

In a solemn night of summer, 

When my heart of gloom 
Blossomed up to greet the comer 
Like a rose in bloom ; 

All forebodings that distressed me 
I forgot as Joy caressed me — 
(Lying Joy! that caught and pressed me 
In the arms of doom!) 

Only spake the little lisper 

In the Angel-tongue; 
Yet I, listening, heard her whisper, — 
"Songs are only sung 

Here below that they may grieve you — 
Tales but told you to deceive you, — 
So must Leonainie leave you 
While her love is young." 

Then God smiled and it was morning. 

Matchless and supreme 
Heaven's glory seemed adorning 

Earth with its esteem: 
288 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Every heart but mine seemed gifted 
With the voice of prayer, and lifted 
Where my Leonainie drifted 
From me like a dream. 



226 A Windy Day 

r I ^HE dawn was a dawn of splendor, 

-^ And the blue of the morning skies 
Was as placid and deep and tender 

As the blue of a baby's eyes ; 
The sunshine flooded the mountain, 

And flashed over land and sea 
Like the spray of a glittering fountain. — 

But the wind — the wind — Ah me ! 

Like a weird invisible spirit, 

It swooped in its airy flight; 
And the earth, as the stress drew near it, 

Quailed as in mute affright ; 
The grass in the green fields quivered — 

The waves of the smitten brook 
Chillily shuddered and shivered, 

And the reeds bowed down and shook. 

Like a sorrowful miserere 

It sobbed, and it blew and blew 

Till the leaves on the trees looked weary, 
And my prayers were weary, too ; 

289 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And then, like the sunshine's glimmer 
That failed in the awful strain, 

All the hope of my eyes grew dimmer 
In a spatter of spiteful rain. 



227 Envoy 

^IfHEN but a little boy, it seemed 

* * My dearest rapture ran 
In fancy ever, when I dreamed 
I was a man — a man! 

Now — sad perversity! — my theme 

Of rarest, purest joy 
Is when, in fancy blest, I dream 

I am a little boy. 



290 



HOME-FOLKS 



228 Lincoln 

TV PEACEFUL life;— just toil and rest— 

All his desire; — 
To read the books he liked the best 

Beside the cabin fire — 
God's word and man's; — to peer sometimes 

Above the page, in smouldering gleams, 
And catch, like far heroic rhymes, 

The onmarch of his dreams. 

A peaceful life ; — to hear the low 

Of pastured herds, 
Or woodman's ax that, blow on blow, 

Fell sweet as rhythmic words. 
And yet there stirred within his breast 

A fateful pulse that, like a roll 
Of drums, made high above his rest 

A tumult in his soul. 

A peaceful life ! . . . They haled him even 

As One was haled 
Whose open palms were nailed toward Heaven 

When prayers nor aught availed. 
And, lo, he paid the selfsame price 

To lull a nation's awful strife 
And will us, through the sacrifice 

Of self, his peaceful life. 
291 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

229 Let Something Good be Said 

\\J HEN over the fair fame of friend or foe 

* * The shadow of disgrace shall fall, instead 
Of words of blame, or proof of thus and so, 
Let something good be said. 

Forget not that no fellow-being yet 

May fall so low but love may lift his head : 
Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet, 
If something good be said. 

No generous heart may vainly turn aside 

In ways of sympathy; no soul so dead 
But may awaken strong and glorified, 
If something good be said. 

And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown, 

And by the cross on which the Saviour bled, 
And by your own souls' hope of fair renown, 
Let something good be said ! 

230 Your Height is Ours 

TO RICHARD HENRY STODDARD, AT THE STODDARD BANQUET BY 
THE AUTHORS' CLUB, NEW YORK, MARCH 25, 1897 

/^y PRINCELY poet!— kingly heir 
^-^ Of gifts divinely sent, — 
Your own! — nor envy anywhere, 
Nor voice of discontent. 
292 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Though, of ourselves, all poor are we, 
And frail and weak of wing, 

Your height is ours — your ecstasy — 
Your glory, when you sing. 

Most favored of the gods, and great 

In gifts beyond our store, 
We covet not your rich estate, 

But prize our own the more. — 

The gods give as but gods may do — 
We count our riches thus, — 

They gave their richest gifts to you, 
And then gave you to us. 



231 "O Life! Beyond!" 

C TRANGE— strange, O mortal Life, 
^ The perverse gifts that came to me from you ! 
From childhood I have wanted all good things: 
You gave me few. 

You gave me faith in One — 

Divine — above your own imperious might, 

mortal Life, while I but wanted you 

And your delight. 

1 wanted dancing feet, 

And flowery, grassy paths by laughing streams ; 
You gave me loitering steps, and eyes all blurred 
With tears and dreams. 
293 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I wanted love,— and, lo ! 
As though in mockery, you gave me loss. 
O'erburdened sore, I wanted rest : you gave 
The heavier cross. 

I wanted one poor hut 
For mine own home, to creep away into : 
You gave me only lonelier desert lands 
To journey through. 

Now, at the last vast verge 
Of barren age, I stumble, reel, and fling 
Me down, with strength all spent and heart athirst 
And famishing. 

Yea, now, Life, deal me death, — 

Your worst — your vaunted worst ! . . . Across my breast 
With numb and fumbling hands I gird me for 
The best. 



232 Emerson 

CONCORD, APRIL 27, 1882 

\\T HAT shall we say? In quietude, 

* * Within his home, in dreams unguessed, 
He lies ; the grief a nation would 
Evince must be repressed. 

294 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Nor meet is it the loud acclaim 

His countrymen would raise — that he 
Has left the riches of his fame 

The whole world's legacy. 

Then, prayerful, let us pause until 
We find, as grateful spirits can, 
The way most worthy to fulfil 

The tribute due the man. 

Think what were best in his regard 

Who voyaged life in such a cause : 
Our simplest faith were best reward— r 
Our silence, best applause. 



233 Hymn Exultant 

FOR EASTER 

A TOICE of Mankind, sing over land and sea — 

* Sing, in this glorious morn ! 
The long, long night is gone from Calvary — 

The cross, the thong and thorn ; 
The sealed tomb yields up its saintly guest, 
No longer to be burdened and oppressed. 

Heart of Mankind, thrill answer to His own, 

So human, yet divine ! 
For earthly love He left His heavenly throne— 

For love like thine and mine — 
For love of us, as one riaight kiss a bride, 
His lifted lips touehed death's, all satisfied. 
1*5 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Soul of Mankind, He wakes — He lives once more ! 

O soul, with heart and voice 
Sing ! sing ! — the stone rolls chorus from the door- 

Our Lord stands forth. — Rejoice ! 
Rejoice, O garden-land of song and flowers; 
Our King returns to us, forever ours ! 



234 The Name of Old Glory 

1898 



/^VLD GLORY! say, who, 
^-^ By the ships and the crew, 

And the long, blended ranks of the gray and the blue,- 
Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear 
With such pride everywhere 
As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air 
And leap out full-length, as we're wanting you to ? — 
Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, 
And the honor and fame so becoming to you? — 
Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, 
With your stars at their glittering best overhead — 
By day or by night 
Their delightfulest light 

Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue !- 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory? — say, who — 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory? 

The old banner lifted, and faltering then 
In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again. 
296 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



Old Glory, — speak out ! — we are asking about 
How you happened to "favor" a name, so to say, 
That sounds so familiar and careless and gay 
As we cheer it and shout in our wild breezy way — 
We — the crowd, every man of us, calling you that — 
We — Tom, Dick, and Harry — each swinging his hat 
And hurrahing "Old Glory !" like you were our kin, 
When — Lord! — we all know we're as common as sin! 
And yet it just seems like you humor us all 
And waft us your thanks, as we hail you and fall 
Into line, with you over us, waving us on 
Where our glorified, sanctified betters have gone.— 
And this is the reason we're wanting to know — 
(And we're wanting it so! — 

Where our own fathers went we are willing to go.) — 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory — O-ho ! — 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory? 

The old flag unfurled with a billowy thrill 

For an instant, then wistfully sighed and was still. 

in 

Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear 
Is what the plain facts of your christening were, — 
For your name — just to hear it, 
Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit 
As salt as a tear ;— 

And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, 
There's a shout in the throat and a 1)1 nr in the eye 
And an aching to live for you always — or die, 
If, dying, we still keep you waving on high. 
297 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And so, by our love 
For you, floating above, 

And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, 
Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why 
Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory? 

Then the old banner leaped, like a sail in the blast, 
And fluttered an audible answer at last. — 



IV 



And it spake, with a shake of the voice, and it said : 
By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red 
Of my bars, and their heaven of stars overhead — 
By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, 
As 1 float from the steeple, or flap at the mast, 
Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod,-- 
My name is as old as the glory of God. 
... So I came by the name of Old Glory. 



235 As Created 

r I ^HERE'S a space for good to bloom in 

-^ Every heart of man or woman, — 
And however wild or human, 

Or however brimmed with gall, 
Never heart may beat without it; 
And the darkest heart to doubt it 
Has something good about it 

After all. 
298 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
236 A Song of the Road 

OI WILL walk with you, my lad, whichever way you 
fare, 

You'll have me, too, the side o' you, with heart as light 
as air; 

No care for where the road you take's a-leadin' — any- 
where, — 

It can but be a joyful jant the whilst you journey there. 

The road you take's the path o' love, an' that's the bridth 
o' two — 

And I will walk with you, my lad — O I will walk with you. 

Ho ! I will walk with you, my lad, 

Be weather black or blue 
Or roadsides frost or dew, my lad — 

O I will walk with you. 

Aye glad, my lad, I'll walk with you, whatever winds may 

blow, 
Or summer blossoms stay our steps, or blinding drifts of 

snow; 
The way that you set face and foot's the way that I will go, 
And brave I'll be, abreast o' you, the Saints and Angels 

know ! 
With loyal hand in loyal hand, and one heart made o' two. 
Through summer's gold, or winter's cold, it's I will walk 

with you. 

Sure, I will walk with you, my lad, 

As love ordains me to, — 
To Heaven's door, and through, niv lad, 

O I will walk with you. 

JOO 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
237 To the Judge 

A VOICE FROM THE INTERIOR OF OLD HOOP-POLE TOWNSHIP 

T^ RIEND of my earliest youth, 

■*■ Can't you arrange to come down 

And visit a fellow out here in the woods — 

Out of the dust of the town? 
Can't you forget you're a Judge 

And put by your dolorous frown 
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend — 

Can't you arrange to come down? 

Can't you forget for a while 

The arguments prosy and drear, — 
To lean at full-length in indefinite rest 

In the lap of the greenery here? 
Can't you kick over "the Bench," 

And "husk" yourself out of your gown 
To dangle your legs where the fishing is good — 

Can't you arrange to come down ? 

Bah ! for your office of State ! 

And bah ! for its technical lore ! 
What does our President, high in his chair, 

But wish himself low as before ! 
Pick between peasant and king, — 

Poke your bald head through a crown 
Or shadow it here with the laurels of Spring! — 

Can't you arrange to come down? 

"Judge it" out here, if you will — 

The birds are in session by dawn ; 
You can draw, not complaints, but a sketch of the hill 

And a breath that your betters have drawn; 
300 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

You can open your heart, like a case, 
To a jury of kine, white and brown, 

And their verdict of "Moo" will just satisfy you!- 
Can't you arrange to come down ? 

Can't you arrange it, old Pard? — 

Pigeonhole Blackstone and Kent!— 
Here we have "Breitmann," and Ward, 

Twain, Burdette, Nye, and content! 
Can't you forget you're a Judge 

And put by your dolorous frown 
And tan your wan face in the smile of a friend — 

Can't you arrange to come down? 



238 Henry W. Grady 

ATLANTA, DECEMBER 2$, 1889 

^RUE-HEARTED friend of all true friendliness !— 
-** Brother of all true brotherhoods ! — Thy hand 

And its late pressure now we understand 
Most fully, as it falls thus gestureless 
And Silence lulls thee into sweet excess 

Of sleep. Sleep thou content ! — Thy loved Southland 

Is swept with tears, as rain in sunshine ; and 
Through all the frozen North our eyes confess 

Like sorrow — seeing still the princely sign 
Set on thy lifted brow, and the rapt light 

Of the dark, tender, melancholy eyes — 

Thrilled with the music of those lips of thine, 
And yet the fire thereof that lights the night 

With the white splendor of thy prophecies. 
301 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

239 From Delphi to Camden 

1 

T^ROM Delphi to Camden— little Hoosier towns — 

-^ But here were classic meadows, blooming dales and 

downs ; 
And here were grassy pastures, dewy as the leas 
Trampled over by the trains of royal pageantries ! 

And here the winding highway loitered through the shade 
Of the hazel-covert, where, in ambuscade, 
Loomed the larch and linden, and the greenwood-tree 
Under which bold Robin Hood loud hallooed tome! 

Here the stir and riot of the busy day 
Dwindled to the quiet of the breath of May; 
Gurgling brooks, and ridges lily-marged and spanned 
By the rustic bridges found in Wonderland ! 



From Delphi to Camden, — from Camden back again ! — 
And now the night was on us, and the lightning and the 

rain; 
And still the way was wondrous with the flash of hill and 

plain, — 
The stars like printed asterisks — the moon a murky stain ! 

And I thought of tragic idyl, and of flight and hot pursuit, 
And the jingle of the bridle and cuirass, and spur on boot, 
As our horses' hooves struck showers from the flinty 

bowlders set 
In freshet-ways of writhing reed and drowning violet. 

302 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And we passed beleaguered castles, with their battlements 
a-f rown ; 

Where a tree fell in the forest was a turret toppled down; 

While my master and commander — the brave knight I gal- 
loped with 

On this reckless road to ruin or to fame was — Dr. Smith ! 



240 The Naturalist 

OLIVER DAVIE 

T N gentlest worship has he bowed 

*- To Nature. Rescued from the crowd 

And din of town and thoroughfare, 

He turns him from all worldly care 

Unto the sacred fastness of 

The forests, and the peace and love 

That breathes there prayer-like in the breeze 

And coo of doves in dreamful trees — 

Their tops in laps of sunshine laid, 

Their lower boughs all slaked with shade. 

With head uncovered has he stood, 
Hearing the Spirit of the Wood — 
Hearing aright the Master speak 
In trill of bird, and warbling creek; 
In lisp of reeds, or rainy sigh 
Of grasses as the loon darts by — 
Hearing aright the storm and lull, 
And all earth's voices wonderful, — 
Even this hail an unknown friend 
Lifts will he hear and comprehend. 
303 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
241 One With a Song 

FRANK L. STANTON 

T T E sings : and his song is heard, 
•*■ -*■ Pure as a joyous prayer, 
Because he sings of the simple things — 

The fields, and the open air, 
The orchard-bough, and the mockingbird, 

And the blossoms everywhere. 

He sings of a wealth we hold 

In common ownership — 
The wildwood nook, and the laugh of the brook, 

And the dewdrop's drip and drip, 
The love of the lily's heart of gold, 

And the kiss of the rose's lip. 

The universal heart 

Leans listening to his lay 
That glints and gleams with the glimmering dreams 

Of children at their play — 
A lay as rich with unconscious art 

As the first song-bird's of May. 

Ours every rapturous tone 

Of every song of glee, 
Because his voice makes native choice 

Of Nature's harmony— 
So that his singing seems our own, 

And ours his ecstasy. 

Steadfastly, bravely glad 

Above all earthly stress, 
He lifts his line to heights divine, 
304 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, singing, ever says, — 
This is a better world than bad — 
God's love is limitless. 

He sings : and his song is heard, 

Pure as a joyous prayer, 
Because he sings of the simple things — 

The fields, and the open air, 
The orchard-bough, and the mockingbird, 

And the blossoms everywhere. 



242 On a Fly-Leaf 

IN JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY'S POEMS 

INGERS there are of courtly themes — 

^ Drapers in verse — who would dress their rhymes 
In robes of ermine; and singers of dreams 

Of gods high-throned in the classic times; 
Singers of nymphs, in their dim retreats, 

Satyrs, with scepter and diadem ; 
But the singer who sings as a man's heart beats 

Well may blush for the rest of them. 

1 like the thrill of such poems as these, — 
All spirit and fervor of splendid fact — 

Pulse, and muscle, and arteries 

Of living, heroic thought and act ! — 
Where every line is a vein of red 

And rapturous blood all uncon fined 
As it leaps from a heart that has joyed and bled 

With the rights and the wrongs of all mankind. 
305 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
242 Oscar C. McCulloch 

INDIANAPOLIS, DECEMBER 12, 189I 

T ^7 HAT would best please our friend, in token of 
* * The sense of our great loss? — Our sighs and tears? 
Nay, these he fought against through all his years, 

Heroically voicing, high above 

Grief's ceaseless minor, moaning like a dove, 
The paean triumphant that the soldier hears, 
Scaling the walls of death, midst shouts and cheers, 

The old Flag laughing in his eyes' last love. 

Nay, then, to pleasure him were it not meet 
To yield him bravely, as his fate arrives? — 

Drape him in radiant roses, head and feet, 
And be partakers, while his work survives, 

Of his fair fame, — paying the tribute sweet 
To all humanity — our nobler lives. 

244 The Sermon of the Rose 

\ 1 WILFUL we are, in our infirmity 

* * Of childish questioning and discontent. 
Whate'er befalls us is divinely meant — 
Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery! 
Make us to meet what is or is to be 
With fervid welcome, knowing it is sent 
To serve us in some way full excellent, 
Though we discern it all belatedly. 
The rose buds, and the rose blooms, and the rose 
Bows in the dews, and in its fullness, lo, 
Is in the lover's hand, — then on the breast 
Of her he loves, — and there dies. — And who knows 
306 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

What fate of all a rose may undergo 
Is fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest? 

Nay, we are children : we will not mature. 

A blessed gift must seem a theft; and tears 

Must storm our eyes when but a joy appears 

In drear disguise of sorrow; and how poor 

We seem when we are richest, — most secure 

Against all poverty the lifelong years 

We yet must waste in childish doubts and fears 

That, in despite of reason, still endure ! 

Alas ! the sermon of the rose we will 

Not wisely ponder ; nor the sobs of grief 

Lulled into sighs of rapture, nor the cry 

Of fierce defiance that again is still. 

Be patient — patient with our frail belief, 

And stay it yet a little ere we die. 

O opulent life of ours, though dispossessed 
Of treasure after treasure ! Youth most fair 
Went first, but left its priceless coil of hair — 
Moaned over, sleepless nights, kissed and caressed 
Through drip and blur of tears the tenderest. 
And next went Love — the ripe rose glowing there, 
Her very sister \ ... It is here, but where 
Is she, of all the world the first and best? 
And yet how sweet the sweet earth after rain — 
How sweet the sunlight on the garden-wall 
Across the roses — and how sweetly flows 
The limpid yodel of the brook again ! 
And yet — and yet how sweeter, after all, 
The smoldering sweetness of a dead red rose. 

307 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

245 What the Wind Said 

T MUSE to-day, in a listless way, 
In the gleam of a summer land; 
I close my eyes as a lover may 

At the touch of his sweetheart's hand, 
And I hear these things in the whisperings 
Of the zephyrs 'round me fanned:— 

I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, 

And I hold a sovereign reign 
Over the lands, as God designed, 

And the waters they contain : 
Lo ! the bound of the wide world round 

Falleth in my domain! 

I was born on a stormy morn 
In a kingdom walled with snow, 

Whose crystal cities laugh to scorn 
The proudest the world can show ; 

And the daylight's glare is frozen there 
In the breath of the blasts that blow. 

Life to me was a jubilee 

From the first of my youthful days : 
Clinking my icy toys with glee — 

Playing my childish plays; 
Filling my hands with the silver sands 

To scatter a thousand ways : 

Chasing the flakes that the Polar shakes 

From his shaggy coat of white, 
Or hunting the trace of the track he makes 
308 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And sweeping it from sight, 
As he turned to glare from the slippery stair 
Of the iceberg's farthest height. 

Till I grew so strong that I strayed ere long 

From my home of ice and chill ; 
With an eager heart and a merry song 

I traveled the snows until 
I heard the thaws in the ice-crag's jaws 

Crunched with a hungry will ; 

And the angry crash of the waves that dash 

Themselves on the jagged shore 
Where the splintered masts of the ice-wrecks flash, 

And the frightened breakers roar 
In wild unrest on the ocean's breast 

For a thousand leagues or more. 

And the grand old sea invited me 

With a million beckoning hands, 
And I spread my wings for a flight as free 

As ever a sailor plans 
When his thoughts are wild and his heart beguiled 

With the dreams of foreign lands. 

I passed a ship on its homeward (rip, 

With a weary and toil-worn crew ; 
And I kissed their flag with a welcome lip, 

And so glad a gale I blew 
That the sailors quaffed their grog and laughed 

At the work I made them do. 



309 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I drifted by where sea-groves lie 

Like brides in the fond caress 
Of the warm sunshine and the tender sky — ■ 

Where the ocean, passionless 
And tranquil, lies like a child whose eyes 

Are blurred with drowsiness. 

I drank the air and the perfume there, 

And bathed in a fountain's spray; 
And I smoothed the wings and the plumage rare 

Of a bird for his roundelay, 
And fluttered a rag from a signal-crag 

For a wretched castaway. 

With a sea-gull resting on my breast, 

I launched on a madder flight : 
And I lashed the waves to a wild unrest, 

And howled with a fierce delight 
Till the daylight slept; and I wailed and wept 

Like a fretful babe all night. 

For I heard the boom of a gun strike doom ; 

And the gleam of a blood-red star 
Glared at me through the mirk and gloom 

From the lighthouse tower afar; 
And I held my breath at the shriek of death 

That came from the harbor bar. 

For I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, 

And I hold a sovereign reign 
Over the lands, as God designed, 



310 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the waters they contain : 
Lo ! the bound of the wide world round 
Falleth in my domain! 

I journeyed on, when the night was gone, 

O'er a coast of oak and pine; 
And I followed a path that a stream had drawn 

Through a land of vale and vine, 
And here and there was a village fair 

In a nest of shade and shine. 

I passed o'er lakes where the sunshine shakes 

And shivers his golden lance 
On the glittering shield of the wave that breaks 

Where the fish-boats dip and dance, 
And the trader sails where the mist unveils 

The glory of old romance. 

I joyed to stand where the jeweled hand 

Of the maiden-morning lies 
On the tawny brow of the mountain-land, 

Where the eagle shrieks and cries, 
And holds his throne to himself alone 

From the light of human eyes. 

Adown deep glades where the forest shades 

Are dim as the dusk of day — 
Where only the foot of the wild beast wades, 

Or the Indian dares to stray, 
As the blacksnakes glide through the reeds and hide 

In the swamp-depths grim and gray. 



3ii 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And I turned and fled from the place of dread 

To the far-off haunts of men. 
"In the city's heart is rest," I said, — 

But I found it not, and when 
I saw but care and vice reign there 

I was filled with wrath again : 

And I blew a spark in the midnight dark 

Till it flashed to an angry flame 
And scarred the sky with a lurid mark 

As red as the blush of shame : 
And a hint of hell was the dying yell 

That up from the ruins came. 

The bells went wild, and the black smoke piled 

Its pillars against the night, 
Till I gathered them, like flocks defiled, 

And scattered them left and right, 
While the holocaust's red tresses tossed 

As a maddened Fury's might. 

"Ye overthrown!" did I jeer and groan — 
"Ho! who is your master? — say!— 

Ye shapes that writhe in the slag and moan 
Your slow-charred souls away — 

Ye worse than worst of things accurst — 
Ye dead leaves of a day!" 

I am the Wind, and I rule mankind, 

And I hold a sovereign reign 
Over the lands, as God designed, 



312 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the waters they contain : 
Lo ! the bound of the wide world round 
Falleth in my domain! 

/ wake, as one from a dream half done, 
And gaze with a dazzled eye 

On an autumn leaf like a scrap of sun 
That the wind goes whirling by, 

While afar I hear, with a chill of fear, 
The winter storm-king sigh. 



246 On a Youthful Portrait of 
Stevenson 

A FACE of youth mature ; a mouth of tender, 
"*■*■ Sad, human sympathy, yet something stoic 
In clasp of lip : wide eyes of calmest splendor, 

And brow serenely ample and heroic : — 
The features — all — lit with a soul ideal . . . 

O visionary boy ! what were you seeing, 
What hearing, as you stood thus midst the real 

Ere yet one master-work of yours had being? 

Is it a foolish fancy that we humor — 

Investing daringly with life and spirit 
This youthful portrait of you ere one rumor 

Of your great future spoke that men might hear it?- 
Is it a fancy, or your first of glories, 

That you were listening, and the camera drew you 
Hearing the voices of your untold stories 

And all your lovely poems calling to you? 
313 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

247 The Loving Cup 

r I TRANCED in the glamour of a dream 

-** Where banquet-lights and fancies gleam, 
And ripest wit and wine abound, 
And pledges hale go round and round, — 
Lo, dazzled with enchanted rays — 
As in the golden olden days 
Sir Galahad — my eyes swim up 
To greet your splendor, Loving Cup! 

What is the secret of your art, 
Linking together hand and heart 
Your myriad votaries who do 
Themselves most honor honoring you? 
What gracious service have you done 
To win the name that you have won? — 
Kissing it back from tuneful lips 
That sing your praise between the sips ! 

Your spicy breath, O Loving Cup, 
That, like an incense steaming up, 
Full-freighted with a fragrance fine 
As ever swooned on sense of mine, 
Is rare enough. — But then, ah me ! 
How rarer every memory 
That, rising with it, wreathes and blends 
In forms and faces of my friends ! 

Loving Cup ! in fancy still, 

1 clasp their hands, and feel the thrill 
Of fellowship that still endures 
While lips are theirs and wine is yours! 

314 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And while my memory journeys down 
The years that lead to Boston Town, 
Abide where first were rendered up 
Our mutual loves, O Loving Cup! 



248 The Onward Trail 

MYRON W. REED, DENVER, JANUARY 30, 1 899 

JUST as of old, — with fearless foot 
And placid face and resolute, 
He takes the faint, mysterious trail 
That leads beyond our earthly hail. 

We would cry, as in last farewell, 
But that his hand waves, and a spell 
Is laid upon our tongues : and thus 
He takes unworded leave of us. 

And it is fitting : — As he fared 
Here with us, so is he prepared 
For any fortuning the night 
May hold for him beyond our sight. 

The moon and stars they still attend 
His wandering footsteps to the end, — 
He did not question, nor will we, 
Their guidance and security. 

So, never parting word nor cry : — 
We feel, with him, that by and by 
Our onward trails will meet and then 
Merge and be ever one again. 
315 






THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
249 A Peace-Hymn of the Republic 

LOUISVILLE, KY., SEPT. 12, 1 895 : 29TH ENCAMPMENT, G. A. R. 

HP HERE'S a Voice across the Nation like a mighty 
-*- ocean-hail, 
Borne up from out the Southward as the seas before the 

gale; 
Its breath is in the streaming Flag and in the flying sail- 
As we go sailing on. 

Tis a Voice that we remember — ere its summons soothed 

as now — 
When it rang in battle-challenge, and we answered vow 

with vow, — 
With roar of gun and hiss of sword and crash of prow 

and prow, 

As we went sailing on. 

Our hope sank, even as we saw the sun sink faint and 

far, — 
The Ship of State went groping through the blinding 

smoke of War — 
Through blackest midnight lurching, all uncheered of moon 

or star, 

Yet sailing — sailing on. 

As One who spake the dead awake, with life-blood leap- 
ing warm — 
Who walked the troubled waters, all unscathed, in mortal 

form, — 
We felt our Pilot's presence with His hand upon the 
storm, 

As we went sailing on. 
316 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O Voice of passion lulled to peace, this dawning of To- 
day — 
O Voices twain now blent as one, ye sing all fears away, 
Since foe and foe are friends, and lo ! the Lord, as glad 
as they. — 

He sends us sailing on. 



250 At Crozvn Hill 

TEAVE him here in the fresh greening grasses and trees 
-*— ' And the symbols of love, and the solace of these — 
The saintly white lilies and blossoms he keeps 
In endless caress as he breathlessly sleeps. 
The tears of our eyes wrong the scene of his rest, 
For the sky's at its clearest — the sun's at its best — 
The earth at its greenest — its wild bud-and-bloom 
At its sweetest — and sweetest its honey'd perfume. 
Home ! home ! — Leave him here in his lordly estate, 
And with never a tear as we turn from the gate ! 

Turn back to the home that will know him no more, — 
The vines at the window — the sun through the door. — 
Nor sound of his voice, nor the light of his face ! . . . . 
But the birds will sing on, and the rose, in his place, 
Will tenderly smile till we daringly feign 
He is home with us still, though the tremulous rain 
Of our tears reappear, and again all is gloom, 
And all prayerless we sob in the long-darkened room. 
Heaven portions it thus — the old mystery dim, — 
It is midnight to us — it is morning to him. 
V7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
251 The Enduring 

A MISTY memory — faint, far away 
^**And vague and dim as childhood's long-lost day — 
Forever haunts and holds me with a spell 
Of awe and wonder indefinable : — 
A grimy old engraving tacked upon 
A shoe-shop wall. — An ancient temple, drawn 
Of crumbling granite, sagging portico, 
And gray, forbidding gateway, grim as woe; 
And o'er the portal, cut in antique line, 
The words — cut likewise in this brain of mine — 

"Wouldst have a friend? — Wouldst know what friend is 
best? 

Have God thy friend: He passeth all the rest." 

Again the old shoemaker pounds and pounds 

Resentfully, as the loud laugh resounds 

And the coarse jest is bandied round the throng 

That smokes about the smoldering stove ; and long, 

Tempestuous disputes arise, and then — 

Even as all like discords — die again; 

The while a barefoot boy more gravely heeds 

The quaint old picture, and tiptoeing reads 

There in the rainy gloom the legend o'er 

The lowering portal of the old church door — 

"Wouldst have a friend? — Wouldst know what friend is 
best? 

Have God thy friend : He passeth all the rest." 

So older — older — older, year by year, 
The boy has grown, that now, an old man here, 

3i8 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

He seems a part of Allegory, where 
He stands before Life as the old print there — 
Still awed, and marveling what light must be 
Hid by the door that bars Futurity: — 
Though, ever clearer than with eyes of youth, 
He reads with his old eyes — and tears forsooth — 

"Wouldst have a friend? — Wouldst know what friend is 
best? 

Have God thy friend : He passeth all the rest." 



252 The Mother Sainted 



A 



ND yet she does not stir, — 
Such silence weighs on her 

We hear the drip 
Of tear-drops as we press 
Our kisses answerless 

On brow and lip. 

Not even the yearning touch 
Of lips she loved so much 

She made their breath 
One with her own, will she 
Give answer to and be 

Wooed back from death. 

And though he kneel and plead 
Who was her greatest need, 

And on her cheek 
Lay the soft baby- face 
In its old resting-place. 

She will not speak. 
319 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
^5J The Old Guitar 

\T EGLECTED now is the old guitar 
■** ^ And mouldering into decay; 
Fretted with many a rift and scar 

That the dull dust hides away, 
While the spider spins a silver star 

In its silent lips to-day. 

The keys hold only nerveless strings — 

The sinews of brave old airs 
Are pulseless now; and the scarf that clings 

So closely here declares 
A sad regret in its ravelings 

And the faded hue it wears. 

But the old guitar, with a lenient grace, 
Has cherished a smile for me ; 

And its features hint of a fairer face 
That comes with a memory 

Of a flower-and-perfume-haunted place 
And a moonlit balcony. 

Music sweeter than words confess, 
Or the minstrel's powers invent, 

Thrilled here once at the light caress 
Of the fairy hands that lent 

This excuse for the kiss I press 
On the dear old instrument. 

The rose of pearl with the jeweled stem 

Still blooms; and the tiny sets 
In the circle all are here; the gem 

In the keys, and the silver frets; 
32Q ; 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But the dainty fingers that danced o'er them- 
Alas for the heart's regrets! — 

Alas for the loosened strings to-day, 
And the wounds of rift and scar 

On a worn old heart, with its roundelay 
Enthralled with a stronger bar 

That Fate weaves on, through a dull decay 
Like that of the old guitar ! 



254 Red Riding-Hood 

O WEET little myth of the nursery story— 
^ Earliest love of mine infantile breast, 
Be something tangible, bloom in thy glory 
Into existence, as thou art addressed ! 
Hasten ! appear to me, guileless and good — 
Thou art so dear to me, Red Riding-Hood ! 

Azure-blue eyes, in a marvel of wonder, 
Over the dawn of a blush breaking out ; 
Sensitive nose, with a little smile under 
Trying to hide in a blossoming pout — 
Couldn't be serious, try as you would, 
Little mysterious Red Riding-Hood ! 

Hah ! little girl, it is desolate, lonely, 
Out in this gloomy old forest of Life ! — 
Here are not pansies and buttercups only — 
Brambles and briers as keen as a knife; 
And a Heart, ravenous, trails in the wood 
For the meal have he must, — Red Riding Hood I 
3-i 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

255 At His Wintry Tent 

SAMUEL RICHARDS — ARTIST — DENVER, COLORADO 

\T OT only master of his art was he, 

* ^ But master of his spirit — winged indeed 

For lordliest height, yet poised for lowliest need 
Of those, alas ! upheld less buoyantly. 
He gloried even in adversity, 

And won his country's plaudits, and the meed 

Of Old World praise, as one loath to succeed 
While others were denied like victory. 
Though passed, I count him still my master-friend, 

Invincible as through his mortal fight, — 
The laughing light of faith still in his eye 
As, at his wintry tent, pitched at the end 

Of life, he gaily called to me "Good night, 
Old friend, good night — for there is no good-bye." 

256 Say Something to Me 

SAY something to me ! I've waited so long — 
Waited and wondered in vain ; 
Only a sentence would fall like a song 

Over this listening pain — 
Over a silence that glowers and frowns, — 

Even my pencil to-night 
Slips in the dews of my sorrow and wounds 
Each tender word that I write. 

Say something to me — if only to tell 

Me you remember the past ; 
Let the sweet words, like the notes of a bell, 

Ring out my vigil at last. 
322 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O it were better, far better than this 
Doubt and distrust in the breast, — 

For in the wine of a fanciful kiss 
I could taste Heaven, and — rest. 

Say something to me ! I kneel and I plead, 

In my wild need, for a word ; 
If my poor heart from this silence were freed, 

I could soar up like a bird 
In the glad morning, and twitter and sing, 

Carol and warble and cry 
Blithe as the lark as he cruises awing 

Over the deeps of the sky. 



257 The Noblest Service 

DR. WYCKLIFFE SMITH, LATE SURGEON l6lSt REGIMENT INDIANA 
VOLUNTEERS, DELPHI, DECEMBER 29, 1899 

T F all his mourning friends unselfishly 

•*" Might speak, high over grief, in one accord, 

What voice of joy were lifted to the Lord 
For having lent our need such ministry 
As this man's life has ever proved to be ! 

Yea, even through battle-crash of gun and sword 

His steadfast step still found the pathway toward 
The noblest service paid Humanity. 
O ye to whose rich firesides he has brought 

A richer light ! O watcher at the door 
Of the lone cabin ! O kindred ! Comrades ! — all ! 
Since universal good he dreamed and wrought, 

Be brave, to pleasure him, as, on before, 
He leads us, answering Glory's highest call. 

#3 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
258 The Ban 



TRANGE dreams of what I used to be, 
^ And what I dreamed I would be, swim 
Before my vision, faint and dim 

As misty distances we see 

In pictured scenes of fairy-lands ; 

And ever on, with empty hands, 

And eyes that ever lie to me, 

And smiles that no one understands, 

1 grope adown my destiny. 



Some say I waver as I walk 
Along the crowded thoroughfares; 
And some leer in my eyes, and talk 
Of dullness, while I see in theirs— 
Like fishes' eyes, alive or dead — 
But surfaces of vacancy — 
Blank disks that never seem to see, 
But glint and glow and glare instead. 

in 

The ragged shawl I wear is wet 
With driving, dripping rains, and yet 
It seems a royal raiment, where, 
Through twisted torrents of my hair, 
I see rare gems that gleam and shine 
Like jewels in a stream of wine; 
324 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The gaping shoes that clothe my feet 
Are golden sandals, and the shrine 
Where courtiers grovel and repeat 
Vain prayers, and where, in joy thereat, 
A fair Prince doffs his plumed hat, 
And kneels, and names me all things sweet. 

IV 

Sometimes the sun shines, and the lull 
Of winter noon is like a tune 
The stars might twinkle to the moon 
If night were white and beautiful — 
For when the clangor of the town 
And strife of traffic softens down, 
The wakeful hunger that I nurse, 
In listening, forgets to curse, 
Until — ah, joy! with drooping head 
I drowse, and dream that I am dead 
And buried safe beyond their eyes 
Who either pity or despise. 



259 The Edge of the Wind 

VTE stars in ye skies seem twinkling 

-*■ In icicles of light, 
And ye edge of ye wind cuts keener 
Than ever ye sword-edge might ; 
Ye footsteps crunch in ye courtway, 

And ye trough and ye cask go "ping '!"■ 
Ye china cracks in ye pantry, 
And ye crickets cease to sing. 
325 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

260 Eugene Field 

\ \ TITH gentlest tears, no less than jubilee 
^ * Of blithest joy, we heard him, and still hear 
Him singing on, with full voice, pure and clear, 

Uplifted, as some classic melody 

In sweetest legends of old minstrelsy; 
Or, swarming Elfin-like upon the ear, 
His airy notes make all the atmosphere 

One blur of bird and bee and lullaby. 

His tribute : — Lustre in the faded bloom 
Of cheeks of old, old mothers; and the fall 
Of gracious dews in eyes long dry and dim; 

And hope in lovers' pathways midst perfume 
Of woodland haunts ; and — meed exceeding all, — 
The love of little children laurels him. 



H 



261 Our Boyhood Haunts 

O ! I'm going back to where 
We were youngsters. — Meet me there, 
Dear old barefoot chum, and we 
Will be as we used to be, — 
Lawless rangers up and down 
The old creek beyond the town — 
Little sunburnt gods at play, 
Just as in that far-away : — 
Water nymphs, all unafraid, 
Shall smile at us from the brink 
Of the old mill-race and wade 
Tow'rd us as we kneeling drink 
At the spring our boyhood knew, 
Pure and clear as morning-dew : 
326 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, as we are rising there, 
Doubly dowVd to hear and see, 
We shall thus be made aware 
Of an eerie piping, heard 
High above the happy bird 
In the hazel : And then we, 
Just across the creek, shall see 
(Hah ! the goaty rascal !) Pan 
Hoof it o'er the sloping green, 
Mad with his own melody, 
Ay, and (bless the beasty man!) 
Stamping from the grassy soil 
Bruised scents of fleur-de-lis 3 
Boneset, mint, and pennyroyal. 



262 To Robert Louis Stevenson 

ON HIS FIRST VISIT TO AMERICA 

13 OBERT LOUIS STEVENSON ! 
-^^ Blue the lift and braw the dawn 
O' yer comin' here amang 
Strangers wha hae luved ye lang ! 
Strangers tae ye we maun be, 
Yet tae us ye're kenned a wee 
By the writing ye hae done 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Syne ye've pit ye'r pen tae sic* 

Talcs it stabbl us tae the quick — 
Whiles o' tropic isles an' seas 
An' o' gowden treasuries — 
3-7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Tales o' deid men's banes; an' tales 
Swete as sangs o' nightingales 
When the nune o' mirk's begun — 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Sae we hail thee ! nane the less 
For the "burr" that ye caress 
Wi' yer denty tongue o' Scots, 
Makin' words forget-me-nots 
O' yer bonnie braes that were 
Sung o' Burns the Poemer — 
And that later lavrock, one 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 



263 The Silent Singer 

MRS. D. M. JORDAN, APRIL 29, 1895 



A 



LL sudden she hath ceased to sing 
Hushed in eternal slumbering, 
And we make moan that she is dead.- 
Nay; peace! be comforted. 



Between her singing and her tears 
She pauses, listening — and she hears 
The Song we cannot hear. — And thus 
She mutely pities us. 

Could she speak out, we doubt not she 
Would turn to us full tenderly, 
And in the old melodious voice 
Say: "Weep not, but rejoice." 
328 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Ay, musical as waters run 
In woodland rills through shade and sun, 
The sweet voice would flow on and say,- 
"Be glad with me to-day. — 

"Your Earth was very dear and fair 
To me — the groves and grasses there ; 
The bursting buds and blossoms — O 
I always loved them so ! — 

"The very dews within them seemed 
Reflected by mine eyes and gleamed 
Adown my cheeks in what you knew 
As 'tears/ and not as dew. 

"Your birds, too, in the orchard-boughs — 
I could not hear them from the house, 
But I must leave my work and stray 
Out in the open day 

"And the illimitable range 
Of their vast freedom — always strange 
And new to me — It pierced my heart 
With sweetness as a dart ! — 

"The singing! singing! singing! — All 
The trees bloomed blossoms musical 
That chirped and trilled in colors till 
My whole soul seemed to fill 

"To overflow with music, BO 
That I have found me kneeling low 
0£Q 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Midst the lush grass, with murmurous words 
Thanking the flowers and birds. 

"So with the ones to me most dear — 
I loved them, as I love them Here : 
Bear with my memory, therefore, 
As when in days of yore, 

"O friends of mine, ye praised the note 
Of some song, quavering from my throat 
Out of the overstress of love 
And all the pain thereof. 

"And ye, too, do I love with this 
Same love — and Heaven knows all it is, — 
The birds' song in it — bud and bloom — 
The turf, but not the tomb." 

Between her singing and her tears 
She pauses, listening — and she hears 
The Song we cannot hear. — And thus 
She mutely pities us. 



264 The Christ 

"T^ATHER!" (so The Word) He cried,- 
-*■ "Son of Thine, and yet denied; 
By my brothers dragged and tried, 
Scoffed and scourged, and crucified, 
With a thief on either side — 
Brothers mine, alike belied, — 
Arms of mercy open wide, 
Father! Father !" So He died. 
330 



BI 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
265 The Home-Voyage 

GENERAL HENRY W. LAWTON — FELL AT SAN MATEO, DECEMBER 
19, 1899. IN STATE, INDIANAPOLIS, FEBRUARY 6, I9OO. 

EAR with us, O Great Captain, if our pride 
Show equal measure with our grief's excess 
In greeting you in this your helplessness 
To countermand our vanity or hide 
Your stern displeasure that we thus had tried 
To praise you, knowing praise was your distress : 
But this home-coming swells our hearts no less — 
Because for love of home you proudly died. 
Lo ! then, the cable, fathoms 'neath the keel 
That shapes your course, is eloquent of you ; 
The old flag, too, at half-mast overhead — 
We doubt not that its gale-kissed ripples feel 
A prouder sense of red and white and blue, — 
The stars — Ah, God, were they interpreted ! 

In strange lands were your latest honors won — 
In strange wilds, with strange dangers all beset; 
With rain, like tears, the face of day was wet, 
As rang the ambushed foeman's fateful gun : 
And as you felt your final duty done, 
We feel that glory thrills your spirit yet, — 
When at the front, in swiftest death, you met 
The patriot's doom and best reward in one. 
And so the tumult of that island war, 
At last, for you, is stilled forevermore — 
Its scenes of blood blend white as ocean foam 
On your rapt vision as you sight afar 
The sails of peace, and from that alien shore 
The proud ship bears you on your voyage home. 
331 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Or rough or smooth the wave, or lowering day 
Or starlit sky — you hold, by native right, 
Your high tranquillity — the silent might 
Of the true hero — so you led the way 
To victory through stormiest battle-fray, 
Because your followers, high above the fight, 
Heard your soul's lightest whisper bid them smite 
For God and man and space to kneel and pray. 
And thus you cross the seas unto your own 
Beloved land, convoyed with honors meet, 
Saluted as your home's first heritage — 
Nor salutation from your State alone, 
But all the States, gathered in mighty fleet, 
Dip colors as you move to anchorage. 

266 The Bed 

1 

"T^HOU, of all God's gifts the best, 
■*- Blessed Bed!" I muse, and rest 
Thinking how it havened me 
In my dazed Infancy — 
Ere mine eyes could bear the kind 
Daylight through the window-blind, 
Or my lips, in yearning quest, 
Groping found the mother-breast, 
Or mine utterance but owned 
Minor sounds that sobbed and moaned. 

11 
Gracious Bed that nestled me 
Even ere the mother's knee, — 
332 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Lulling me to slumber ere 
Conscious of my treasure there — 
Save the tiny palms that kept 
Fondling, even as I slept, 
That rare dual-wealth of mine, — 
Softest pillow — sweetest wine ! — 
Gentlest cheer for mortal guest, 
And of Love's fare lordliest 



By thy grace, O Bed, the first 

Blooms of Boyhood-memories burst : — 

Dreams of riches, swift withdrawn 

As I, wakening, find the dawn 

With its glad Spring-face once more 

Glimmering on me as of yore : 

Then the bluebird's limpid cry 

Lulls me like a lullaby, 

Till falls every failing sense 

Back to sleep's sheer impotence. 



IV 



Or, a truant, home again, — 
With the moonlight through the pane, 
And the kiss that ends the prayer — 
Then the footsteps down the stair; 
And the close hush; and far click 
Of the old clock; and the thick 
Sweetness of the locust-bloom 
Drugging all the enchant oil room 
333 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Into darkness fathoms deep 

As mine own pure childish sleep. 



Gift and spell, O Bed, retell 
Every lovely miracle — 
Up from childhood's simplest dream 
Unto manhood's pride supreme ! — 
Sacredness no words express, — 
Lo, the young wife's fond caress 
Of her first-born, while beside 
Bends the husband, tearful-eyed. 
Marveling of kiss and prayer 
Which of these is holier there. 



Trace the vigils through the long, 
Long nights, when the cricket's song 
Stunned the sick man's fevered brain, 
As he tossed and moaned in pain 
Piteous— till thou, O Bed, 
Smoothed the pillows for his head, 
And thy soothest solace laid 
Round him, and his fever weighed 
Into slumber deep and cool, 
And divinely merciful. 

VII 

Thus, O Bed, all gratefully 
I would ever sing of thee — 
334 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Till the final sleep shall fall 
O'er me, and the crickets call 
In the grasses where at last 
I am indolently cast 
Like a play-worn boy at will. — 
'Tis a Bed befriends me still — 
Yea, and Bed, belike, the best, 
Softest, safest, blessedest. 



267 Whittier — At Newbury port 

SEPTEMBER 7, 1 892 

T_T AIL to thee, with all good cheer ! 
-*■ -■■ Though men say thou liest here 

Dead, 
And mourn, all uncomforted. . 

By thy faith refining mine, 

Life still lights those eyes of thine, 

Clear 
As the Autumn atmosphere. 

Ever still thy smile appears 
As the rainbow of thy tears 

Bent 
O'er thy love's vast firmament. 

Thou endurest — shalt endure, 
Purely, as thy song is pure. 

II cat- 
Thus my hail: Good cheer! Good cheer! 
335 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
268 The Unheard 



ONE in the musical throng 
Stood forth with his violin ; 
And warm was his welcome, and long 

The later applause and the din. — 
He had uttered, with masterful skill, 

A melody hailed of men ; 
And his own blood leapt a-thrill, 

As they thundered again. 



Another stood forth. — And a rose 
Bloomed in her hair — likewise 

One at her tremulous throat — 
And a rapture bloomed in her eyes. 

Tempests of cheers upon cheers, 
Praises to last a life long; 

Roses in showers of tears- 
All for her song. 



One sat apart and alone, 

Her lips clasped close and straight, 
Uttering never a tone 

That the World might hear, elate — 
Uttering never a low 

Murmurous verse nor a part 
Of the veriest song — But O 

The song in her heart ! 
336 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

269 In the Evening 

1 

T N the evening of our days, 

•*» When the first far stars above 

Glimmer dimmer, through the haze, 

Than the dewy eyes of love, 
Shall we mournfully revert 

To the vanished morns and Mays 
Of our youth, with hearts that hurt,- 

In the evening of our days? 



Shall the hand that holds your own 

Till the twain are thrilled as now,- 
Be withheld, or colder grown? 

Shall my kiss upon your brow 
Falter from its high estate? 

And, in all forgetful ways, 
Shall we sit apart and wait — 

In the evening of our days? 

in 

Nay, my wife — my life ! — the gloom 

Shall enfold us velvetwise, 
And my smile shall be the groom 

Of the gladness of your eyes : 
Gently, gently as the dew 

Mingles with the darkening maze, 
I shall fall asleep with you — 

In the evening of our days. 
337 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

270 At Sea 

"XT'EA, we go down to sea in ships — 

-*• But Hope remains behind, 
And Love, with laughter on his lips, 

And Peace, of passive mind ; 
While out across the deeps of night, 

With lifted sails of prayer, 
We voyage off in quest of light, 

Nor find it anywhere. 

O Thou who wroughtest earth and sea, 

Yet keepest from our eyes 
The shores of an eternity 

In calms of Paradise, 
Blow back upon our foolish quest 

With all the driving rain 
Of blinding tears and wild unrest, 

And waft us home again ! 



338 



HIS PA'S ROMANCE 

2ji Her Beautiful Hands 

(^\ YOUR hands — they are strangely fair! 
Nroi Fair — for the jewels that sparkle there, — 
Fair — for the witchery of the spell 
That ivory keys alone can tell; 
But when their delicate touches rest 
Here in my own do I love them best, 
As I clasp with eager, acquisitive spans 
My glorious treasure of beautiful hands ! 

Marvelous — wonderful — beautiful hands ! 
They can coax roses to bloom in the strands 
Of your brown tresses ; and ribbons will twine, 
Under mysterious touches of thine, 
Into such knots as entangle the soul 
And fetter the heart under such a control 
As only the strength of my love understands — 
My passionate love for your beautiful hands. 

As I remember the first fair touch 
Of those beautiful hands that I love so much, 
I seem to thrill as I then was thrilled, 
Kissing the glove that I found unfilled — 
When I met your gaze, and the queenly bow. 
As you said to me, laughingly, "Keep it now!" . 
And dazed and alone in a dream I stand, 
Kissing this ghost of your beautiful hand. 
339 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When first I loved, in the long ago, 
And held your hand as I told you so — 
Pressed and caressed it and gave it a kiss 
And said "I could die for a hand like this !" 
Little I dreamed love's fullness yet 
Had to ripen when eyes were wet 
And prayers were vain in their wild demands 
For one warm touch of your beautiful hands. 

Beautiful Hands !— O Beautiful Hands ! 

Could you reach out of the alien lands 

Where you are lingering, and give me, to-night, 

Only a touch — were it ever so light— 

My heart were soothed, and my weary brain 

Would lull itself into rest again; 

For there is no solace the world commands 

Like the caress of your beautiful hands. 



272 A Tinkle of Bells 

TPHE light of the moon on the white of the snow, 

-** And the answering twinkles along the street, 
And our sleigh flashing by, in the glamour and glow 
Of the glorious nights of the long ago, 

When the laugh of her lips rang clear and sweet 
As the tinkle our horses shook out of the bells 

And flung and tossed back 

On our glittering track 
In a shower of tremulous, murmuring swells 

Of the echoing, airy, melodious bells ! — 
340 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O the mirth of the bells ! 
And the worth of the bells ! 
Come tinkle again, in this dearth of the bells, 
This laughter and love that I lack, yearning back 
For the far-away sound of the bells ! 

Ah ! the bells, they were glad in the long ago ! 
And the tinkles they had, they have thrilled me so 
I have said: "It is they and her songs and face 
Make summer for me of the wintriest place !" 
And now — but sobbings and sad farewells, 
As I peer in the night through the sleeted pane, 
Hearing a clangor and wrangle of bells, 
And never a tinkle again ! 

I 
The snow is a-swoon, and the moon dead-white, 
And the frost is wild in the air to-night! 
Yet still will I linger and listen and pray 
Till the sound of her voice shall come this way, 
With a tinkle of bells, 
And the lisp-like tread 

Of the hooves of the sleigh, 
And the murmurs and swells 
Of the vows she said. 
And O, I shall listen as madmen may, 
Till the tinkling bells ring down this way! — 
Till again the grasp of my hand entwines 
The tensioned loops of the quivering lines, 
And again we ride in the wake of the pride 
And the strength of the coursers, side by side ; 



341 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With our faces smitten again by the spray 
Of the froth of our steeds as we gallop away 

In affright of the bells, 

And the might of the bells, 
And the infinite glee and delight of the bells, 
As they tinkle and tinkle and tinkle, till they 
Are heard through a dawn where the mists are drawn, 
And we canter a gallop and dash away 

Sheer into The Judgment Day ! 

2J3 The Old Man of the Sea 

T 'M The Old Man of the Sea— I am !— 

■*- And this is my secret pride, 

That I have a hundred shapes, all sham, 

And a hundred names beside : 
They have named me "Habit," and "Way," forsooth, 

"Capricious," and "Fancy-free"; — 
But to you, O Youth, I confess the truth, — 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea. 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea, yo-hol 

So lift up a song with me, 
As I sit on the throne of your shoulders, alone, 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea. 

Crowned with the crown of your noblest thought, 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea: 
I reign, rule, ruin, and palter not 

In my pitiless tyranny : 
342 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

You, my lad, are my gay Sindbad, 

Frisking about, with me 
High on the perch I have always had — 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea. 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea, yo-ho! 

So lift up a song with me, 
As I sit on the throne of your shoulders, alone, 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea. 

... 

Tricked in the guise of your best intent, 

I am your failures — all — 
I am the victories you invent, 

And your high resolves that fall: 
I am the vow you are breaking now 

As the wassail-bowl swings free 
And the red guilt flushes your cheek and brow — 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea. 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea, yo-ho! 

So lift up a song with me, 
As I sit on the throne of your shoulders, alone, 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea. 

I am your false dreams of success 

And your mythical future fame — 
Your life-long lies, and your soul's distress 

And your slowly-dying shame : 
I'm the chattering half of your latest laugh. 

And your tongue's last perfidy — 
Your doom, your tomb, and your epitaph . . L 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea. 
348 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea, yo-hol 

So lift up a song with me, 
As I sit on the throne of your shoulders, alone, 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea. 



274 Toil 

T TE had toiled away for a weary while, 
■*■ -*■ Thro' day's dull glare and night's deep gloom ; 
And many a long and lonesome mile 
He had paced in the round of his dismal room; 
He had fared on hunger — had drunk of pain 
As the drouthy earth might drink of rain ; 
And the brow he leaned in his trembling palm 
Throbbed with a misery so intense 
That never again did it seem that calm 
Might come to him with the gracious balm 
Of old-time languor and indolence. 
And he said, "I will leave the tale half told, 
And leave the song for the winds to sing; 
And the pen — that pitiless blade of gold 
That stabs my heart like a dagger-sting — 
I will drive to the hilt through the inkstand's top 
And spill its blood to the last black drop!" 
Then he masked his voice with a laugh, and went 
Out in the world with a lawless grace — 
With a brazen lie in his eyes and face 
Told in a smile of glad content : 
He roved the round of pleasures through, 
And tasted each as it pleased him to; 
344 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

He joined old songs, and the clink and din 
Of the revelers at the banquet hall ; 
And he tripped his feet where the violin 
Spun its waltz for the carnival; 
He looked, bedazed, on the luring wile 
And the siren-light of a woman's smile, 
And peered in her eyes as a diver might 
Peer in the sea ere he leaps outright, — 
Caught his breath, with a glance above, 
And dropped full-length in the depths of love. 



Tis well if ever the false lights die 

On the alien coasts where our wreck'd hopes lie ! 

'Tis well to feel, through the blinding rain, 

Our outflung hands touch earth again ! 

So the castaway came, safe from doom, 

Back at last to his lonely room, 

Filled with its treasure of work to do 

And radiant with the light and bloom 

Of the summer sun and his glad soul, too ! 

And sweet as ever the song of birds, 

Over his work he sang these words : — 

"O friends are good, with their princely ways, 
And royal hearts they are goodly things ; 
And fellowship, in the long dark days 
When the drear soul cowers with drooping wings, 
Is a thing to yearn for. — Mirth is good, — 
For a ringing laugh is a rhythmic cry 
Blown like a hail from the Angelhood 
To the barque of the lone soul drifting by. — 
345 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Goodly, too, is the mute caress 
Of woman's hands and their tenderness — 
The warm breath wet with the dews of love — r ] 
The vine-like arms, and the fruit thereof — 
The touch that thrills, and the kiss that melts- 
But Toil is sweeter than all things ■else." 



. i 

275 The Mute Singer 



T! 



*HE morning sun seemed fair as though 
It were a great red rose ablow 
In lavish bloom, 
With all the air for its perfume, — 
Yet he who had been wont to sing, 
Could trill no thing. 

Supine, at noon, as he looked up 
Into the vast inverted cup 
Of heavenly gold, 
Brimmed with its marvels manifold, 
And his eye kindled, and his cheek — 
Song could not speak. 

. 
Night fell forebodingly ; he knew 
Soon must the rain be falling, too, — 
And, home, heartsore, 
A missive met him at the door — 
— Then Song lit on his lips, and he 
Sang gloriously. 



346 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
276 Old School-Day Romances 

OF the wealth of facts and fancies 
That our memories may recall, 
The old school-day romances 

Are the dearest, after all !— 
When some sweet thought revises 

The half-forgotten tune 
That opened "Exercises" 
On "Friday Afternoon." 

We seem to hear the clicking 

Of the pencil and the pen, 
And the solemn ceaseless ticking 

Of the time-piece ticking then ; 
And we note the watchful master, 

As he waves the warning rod, 
With our own heart beating faster, 

Than the boy's who threw the wad. 

Some little hand uplifted, 

And the creaking of a shoe : — 
A problem left unsifted 

For the teacher's hand to do. 
The murmured hum of learning 

And the flutter of a book — 
The smell of something burning, 

And the school's inquiring look. 

The bashful boy in blushes ; 

And the girl, with glancing eyes. 
Who hides ner smiles, ana husnes 

The laugh about to rise, — 
347 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Then, with a quick invention, 

Assumes a serious face, 
To meet the words, "Attention ! 

Every scholar in his place !" 

The opening song, page twenty — 

Ah ! dear old "Golden Wreath,'' 
You willed your sweets in plenty ; 

And some who look beneath 
The leaves of Time will linger, 

And loving tears will start, 
As Fancy trails her finger 

O'er the index of the heart. 

"Good news from Home" — We hear it 

Welling tremulous, yet clear 
And holy as the spirit 

Of the song we used to hear — 
"Good news for me" — (A throbbing 

And an aching melody) — 
"Has come across the" — (sobbing, 
Yea and salty) "dark blue sea !" 

Or the paean "Scotland's burning !" 

With its mighty surge and swell 
Of chorus, still returning 

To its universal yell — 
Till we're almost glad to drop to 

Something sad and full of pain — 
And "Skip verse three," and stop, too, 

Ere our hearts are broke again. 

348 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Then "the big girls' " compositions 

With their doubt, and hope, and glow 
Of heart and face, — conditions 

Of "the big boys" — even so, 
When themes of "Spring" and "Summer," 

And of "Fall" and "Wintertime" 
Droop our heads and hold us dumber 

Than the sleighbell's fancied chime. 

Elocutionary Science — 

Still in changeless infancy: — 
With its "Cataline's Defiance' 5 

And "The Banner of the Free" : 
Or — lured from Grandma's attic, 

A ramshackle rocker there — 
Adds a shriek of the dramatic 

To the poet's "Old Arm-Chair." 

Or the "Speech of Lpgan" shifts us 

From the pathos to the fire ; 
And Tell (with Gessler) lifts us 

Many noble notches higher — 
Till a youngster, far from sunny, 

With sad eyes of watery blue, 
Winds up with something "funny," 

Like "Cock-a-doodle-do." 

Then a Dialogue — selected 

For its realistic worth : — 
The Cruel Boy detected 

With a turtle turned to earth 

349 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Back-downward ; and, in pleading, 
The Good Boy — strangely gay 

At such a sad proceeding — 
Says, "Turn him over, pray!" 

So the exercises taper 

Through gradations of delight 
To the reading of "The Paper" 

Which is entertaining — quite ! — 
For it goes ahead and mentions 

"If a certain Mr. O. 
Has serious intentions 

That he ought to tell her so." 

It also "Asks permission 

To intimate to 'John' 
The dubious condition 

Of the ground he's standing on;" 
And, dropping the suggestion 

To "mind what he's about," 
It stuns him with the question 

"Does his mother know he's out?" 

And among the contributions 

To this "Academic Press" 
Are "Versified Effusions" 

By — "Our Lady Editress" — 
Which fact is proudly stated 

By the Chief of the concern, — 
Though the verse communicated 

Bears the pen-name "Fanny Fern." 

350 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When all has been recited, 

And the teacher's bell is heard 
And visitors, invited, 

Have dropped a kindly word, 
A hush of holy feeling 

Falls down upon us there, 
As though the day were kneeling, 

With the twilight for the prayer. 

Midst the wealth of fact and fancies 

That our memories may recall, 
Thus the old school-day romances 

Are the dearest, after all ! — 
When some sweet thought revises 

The half-forgotten tune 
That opened "Exercises," 

On "Friday Afternoon." 



^77 He Cometh in Sweet Sense 

■ 

T T E cometh in sweet sense to thee, 
■*■■*■ Be it or dawn, or noon, or night- 
No deepest pain, nor halest glee, 
But He discerneth it aright. 

If there be tears bedim thine eyes, 
His sympathy thou findest plain, — 

The darkest midnight of the skies 
He wecpeth with the tears of rain. 



351 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

If thou art joyful, He hath had 

His gracious will, and lo, 'tis well, — 

As thou art glad, so He is glad, 
Nor mercy strained one syllable. 

Wild vows are words, as prayers are words.- 
God's mercy is not measured by 

Our poor deservings : He affords 
To listen, if we laugh or cry. 



278 In State 

T S it the martins or katydids? 
-*• Early morning or late at night? 
A dream, belike, kneeling down on the lids 
Of a dying man's eyesight. 



Over and over I heard the rain — 
Over and over I waked to see 

The blaze of the lamp as again and again 
Its stare insulted me. 



It is not the click of the clock I hear — 
It is the pulse of the clock, — and lo ! 

How it throbs and throbs on the quickened ear 
Of the dead man listening so ! 
35? 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I heard them whisper "She would not come;" 
But, being dead, I knew — I knew ! . . . 

Some hearts they love us alive, and some 
They love us dead — they do! 

And I am dead — and I joy to be, — 
For here are my folded hands, so cold, 

And yet blood-warm with the roses she 
Has given me to hold. 

Dead — yea, dead ! — But I hear the beat 

Of her heart, as her warm lips touch my brow- 

And O how sweet — how blinding sweet 
To know that she loves me now! 



2?p A Noon Interval 

A DEEP, delicious hush in earth and sky — 
** ** A gracious lull — since, from its wakening, 

The morn has been a feverish, restless thing 
In which the pulse of Summer ran too high 
And riotous, as though its heart went nigh 

To bursting with delights past uttering : 

Now, as an o'erjoyed child may cease to sing 
All falteringly at play, with drowsy eye 

Draining the pictures of a fairy-tale 
To brim his dreams with — there comes o'er the day 

A loathful silence, wherein all sounds fail 
Like loitering tones of some faint roundelay . . . 

No wakeful effort longer may avail — 

The wand waves, and the dozer sinks away. 

353 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
280 His Room 

" T 'M home again, my dear old Room, 
■*- I'm home again, and happy, too, 
As, peering through the brightening gloom, 
I find myself alone with you: 

Though brief my stay, nor far away, 
I missed you— missed you night and day— 
As wildly yearned for you as now. — 
Old Room, how are you, anyhow? 

"My easy chair, with open arms, 
Awaits me just within the door; 
The littered carpet's woven charms 
Have never seemed so bright before,™ 
The old rosettes and mignonettes 
And ivy-leaves and violets, 
Look up as pure and fresh of hue 
As though baptized in morning-dew. 

"Old Room, to me your homely walls 
Fold round me like the arms of love, 
And over all my being falls 
A blessing pure as from above — 
Even as a nestling child caressed 
And lulled upon a loving breast, 
With folded eyes, too glad to weep 

And yet too sad for dreams or sleep. 

1 

"You've been so kind to me, old Room- 
So patient in your tender care, 
My drooping heart in fullest bloom 
Has blossomed for you unaware ; 
354 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And who but you had cared to woo 
A heart so dark, and heavy too, 
As in the past you lifted mine 
From out the shadow to the shine? 

"For I was but a wayward boy 

When first you gladly welcomed me 
And taught me work was truer joy 
Than rioting incessantly: 
And thus the din that stormed within 
The old guitar and violin 
Has fallen in a fainter tone 
And sweeter, for your sake alone. 

"Though in my absence I have stood 
In festal halls a favored guest, 
I missed, in this old quietude, 

My worthy work and worthy rest — 
By this I know that long ago 
You loved me first, and told me so 
In art's mute eloquence of speech 
The voice of praise may never reach. 

"For lips and eyes in truth's disguise 
Confuse the faces of my friends, 
Till old affection's fondest ties 
I find unraveling at the ends ; 
But, as I turn to you, and learn 
To meet my griefs with less concern. 
Your love seems all I have to keep 
Me smiling lest 1 needs must weep. 

355 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

"Yet I am happy, and would fain 
Forget the world and all its woes; 
So set me to my tasks again, 
Old Room, and lull me to repose : 
And as we glide adown the tide 
Of dreams, forever side by side, 
I'll hold your hands as lovers do 
Their sweethearts* and talk love to you/ 3 



281 A Lost Love 

,,r I A WAS a summer ago when he left me here- 

•** A summer of smiles, with never a tear 
Till I said to him, with a sob, my dear, — 
Good-by, my lover ; good-by ! 

For I loved him, O as the stars love night ! 
And my cheeks for him flashed red and white 
When first he called me his Heart's delight, — 
Good-by, my lover ; good-by ! 

The touch of his hand was a thing divine 
As he sat with me in the soft moonshine 
And drank of my love as men drink wine, — 
Good-by, my lover ; good-by ! 

And never a night as I knelt in prayer, 
In thought as white as our own souls were, 
But in fancy he came and he kissed me there, — 
Good-by, my lover ; good-by ! 
356 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But now — ah, now! what an empty place 
My whole heart is ! — Of the old embrace 
And the kiss I loved there lives no trace — 
Good-by, my lover ; good-by ! 

He sailed not over the stormy sea, 
And he went not down in the waves — not he- 
But O, he is lost — for he married me — 
Good-by, my lover ; good-by ! 



282 The Paths of Peace 

MAURICE THOMPSON — FEBRUARY 14, I9OI 

TJE would have holiday — outworn, in sooth, 
** •*• Would turn again to seek the old release, — 
The open fields — the loved haunts of his youth — 
The woods, the waters, and the paths of peace. 

The rest — the recreation he would choose 
Be his abidingly ! Long has he served 

And greatly — ay, and greatly let us use 
Our grief, and yield him nobly as deserved. 

Perchance — with subtler senses than our own 
And love exceeding ours — he listens thus 

To ever nearer, clearer pipings blown 
PfOtti out the lost lands of Theocritus. 

Or, haply, he is beckoned from us here 
By knight or yeoman of the bosky wood, 
357 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Or, chained in roses, haled a prisoner 
Before the blithe Immortal, Robin Hood. 

Or, mayhap, Chaucer signals, and with him 
And his rare fellows he goes pilgriming; 

Or Walton signs him, o'er the morning brim 
Of misty waters midst the dales of Spring. 

Ho ! wheresoe'er he goes, or whosoe'er 

He fares with, he has bravely earned the boon. 

Be his the open, and the glory there 
Of April-buds, May-blooms and flowers of June ! 

Be his the glittering dawn, the twinkling dew, 

The breathless pool or gush of laughing streams- 
Be his the triumph of the coming true 
Of all his loveliest dreams ! 



283 Kathleen Mavourneen 

1894 

Frederick Nicholls Crouch, the musical genius and com- 
poser of the well-known air, "Kathleen Mavourneen/' was, 
at above date, living, in helpless age, in his adopted country, 
America— a citizen since 1849. 
I 

J7' ATHLEEN Mavourneen ! The song is still ringing 

■*■ *■ As fresh and as clear. as the trill of the birds; 

In world-weary hearts it is throbbing and singing 
In pathos too sweet for the tenderest words. 

Oh, have we forgotten the one who first breathed it? 

358 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Oh, have we forgotten his rapturous art — 
Our meed to the master whose genius bequeathed it? 

Oh, why art thou silent, thou Voice of the Heart? — 
Our meed to the master whose genius bequeathed it — 

Oh, why are we silent, Kathleen Mavourneen! 

Kathleen Mavourneen ! Thy lover still lingers ; 

The long night is waning, the stars pale and few ; 
Thy sad serenader, with tremulous fingers, 

Is bowed with his tears as the lily with dew ; 
The old harpstrings quaver, the old voice is shaking; 

In sighs and in sobs moans the yearning refrain; 
The old vision dims, and the old heart is breaking . . 

Kathleen Mavourneen, inspire us again ! 
The old vision dims, and the old heart is breaking: 

Oh, why are we silent, Kathleen Mavourneen! 



284 An Order for a Song 

TV /TAKE me a song of all good things, 
•****■ And fill it full of murmurings, 
Of merry voices, such as we 
Remember in our infancy ; 
But make it tender, for the sake 
Of hearts that brood and tears that break, 
And tune it with the harmony, 
The sighs of sorrow make. 

Make me a song of summer-time. 
And pour such music down the rhyme 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

As ripples over gleaming sands 
And grassy brinks of meadow-lands; 
But make it very sweet and low, 
For need of them that sorrow so, 
Because they reap with empty hands 
The dreams of long ago. 

Make me a song of such a tone, 
That when we croon it all alone, 
The tears of longing as they drip, 
Will break in laughter on the lip ; 
And make it, oh, so pure and clear 
And jubilant that every ear 
Shall drink its rapture sip by sip 
And Heaven lean to hear. 



285 Child's Christmas Carol 

/^HRIST used to be like you and me, 
^-^ When just a lad in Galilee, — 
So when we pray, on Christmas Day, 
He favors first the prayers we say : 
Then waste no tear, but pray with cheer, 
This gladdest day of all the year : 

O Brother mine of birth Divine, 
Upon this natal day of Thine 
Bear with our stress of happiness 
Nor count our reverence the less 
Because with glee and jubilee 
Our hearts go singing up to Thee. 
360 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

286 Old Hec's Idolatry 

TTEIGH-0! our jolly tilts at New World song!— 

■** -*• What was the poem indeed ! and where the bard — 

"Stabbing his inkpot ever, not his heart," 

As Hector phrased it contumeliously, 

Mouthing and munching, at the orchard-stile, 

A water-cored rambo whose spirted juice 

Glanced, sprayed and flecked the sunlight as he mouth'd 

And muncht, and muncht and mouth'd. All loved the man ! 

"Our Hector" as his Alma Mater oozed 

It into utterance — "Old Hec" said we 

Who knew him, hide-and-tallow, hoof-and-horn ! 

So he : "O ay ! my soul ! our New World song — 

The tweedle-deedles of our modern school — 

A school of minnows, — not one gamy bass — 

To hook the angler, not the angler him. 

Here ! all ye little fishes : tweedle-dee ! 

Soh ! one — along the vasty stream of time — 

Glints to the surface with a gasp, — and, lo, 

A bubble ! and he thinks, 'My eye ! — see there, 

Ye little fishes, — there's a song I've sung!' 

Another gapes : another bubble ; then 

He thinks : 'Well, is it not a wondrous art 

To breathe a great immortal poem like that !' 

And then another — and another still — 

And yet another, — till from brim to brim 

The tide is postuled over with a pest 

Of bubbles — bursting bubbles ! Ay ! O ay !" 

So, bluff old Hec. And we, who knew his mood 

Had ramped its worst — unless we roused it yet 

To ire's horiffickest insanity 

36i 



• 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

By some inane, unguarded reference 

To "verse beragged in Hoosier dialect" — 

(A strangely unforgotten coinage of 

Old Hec's, long years agone)— we, so, forbore 

A word, each glimpsing each, as down we sank, 

Couched limply in the orchard's selvage, where — 

The rambo finished and the soggy core 

Zippt at a sapphire wasp with waist more slim 

Than any slender lady's, of old wars, 

Pent fasting for long sennights in tall towers 

That overtop the undercringing seas — 

With one accordant voice, the while he creased 

His scroll of manuscript, we said, "Go on." 

Then Hector thus : 

AN IDYL OF THE KING 

trf - 

Erewhile, as Autumn, to King Arthur's court 
Came Raelus, clamoring : "Lo, has our house 
Been sacked and pillaged by a lawless band 
Of robber knaves, led on by Alstanes, 
The Night-Flower named, because of her fair face, 
All like a lily gleaming in the dusk 
Of her dark hair — and like a lily brimmed 
With dewy eyes that drip their limpid smiles 
Like poison out, for by them has been wro't 
My elder brother's doom, as much I fear. 
While three days gone was holden harvest-feast 
At Lynion Castle — clinging like a gull 
High up the gray cliffs of Caerleon — 
Came, leaf-like lifted from the plain below 
As by a twisted wind, a rustling pack 

362 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Of bandit pillagers, with Alstanes 

Bright-fluttering like a red leaf in the front. 

And ere we were aware of fell intent — 

Not knowing whether it was friend or foe — 

We found us in their toils, and all the house 

In place of guests held only prisoners — 

Save that the host, my brother, wro't upon 

By the strange beauty of the robber queen, 

Was left unfettered, but by silken threads 

Of fine-spun flatteries and wanton smiles 

Of the enchantress, till her villain thieves 

Had rifled as they willed and signal given 

To get to horse again. And so they went — 

Their leader flinging backward, as she rode, 

A kiss to my mad brother— mad since then, — 

For from that sorry hour he but talked 

Of Alstanes, and her rare beauty, and 

Her purity — ay, even that he said 

Was star-white, and should light his life with love 

Or leave him groping blindly in its quest 

Thro' all eternity. So, sighing, he 

Went wandering about till set of sun, 

Then got to horse, and bade us all farewell ; 

And with his glamoured eyes bent trancedly 

Upon the tumbled sands that marked the way 

The robber-woman went, he turned and chased 

His long black shadow o'er the edge of fligfrt.fi 

— So Raelus, all seemingly befret 

With such concern as nipped his utterance 

In scraps of speech : at which Sir Lancelot, 



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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Lifting a slow smile to the King, and then 
Turning his cool eye on the youth — "And you 
Would track this siren-robber to her hold 
And rout her rascal followers, and free 
Your brother from the meshes of this queen 
Of hearts — for there you doubtless think him?" 

"Ay!" 
Foamed Raelus, cheek flushed and eye aflame, — 
"So even have I tracked, and found them, too, 
And know their burrow, shrouded in a copse, 
Where, faring in my brother's quest, I heard 
The nicker of his horse, and followed on, 
And found him tethered in a thicket wild, 
As tangled in its tress of leaf and limb 
As is a madman's hair ; and down the path 
That parted it and ran across a knoll 
And dipped again, all suddenly I came 
Upon a cave, wide-yawning 'neath a beard 
Of tangled moss and vine, whence issuing 
I heard, blown o'er my senses faint and clear 
As whiffs of summer wind, my brother's voice 
Lilting a love-song, with the burden tricked 
With dainty warblings of a woman's tongue : 
And even as I listening bent, I heard 
Such peals of wanton merriment as made 
My own heart flutter as a bird that beats 
For freedom at the bars that prison it. 
So turned I then and fled as one who flies 
To save himself alone — forgetful all 
Of that my dearer self — my brother. — O !" — 
Breaking as sharply as the icy blade 



364 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

That loosens from the eave to slice the air 

And splinter into scales of flying frost — 

"Thy help ! Thy help ! A dozen goodly knights — 

Ay, even that, if so it be their hearts 

Are hungry as my own to right the wrong !" 

So Raelus. And Arthur graciously 

Gave ear to him, and, patient, heard him thro', 

And pitied him, and granted all he asked ; 

Then took his hand and held it, saying, "Strong 

And ever stronger may its grasp be knit 

About the sword that flashes in the cause 

Of good. ,, 

Thus Raelus, on the morrow's front, 
Trapped like a knight and shining like a star, 
Pranced from the archway of the court, and led 
His glittering lances down the gleaming road 
That river-like ran winding till it slipped 
Out of the palace view and spilled their shields 
Like twinkling bubbles o'er the mountain brim. 

Then happed it that as Raelus rode, his tongue 
Kept even pace and cantered ever on 
Right merrily. His brother, as he said, 
Had such an idle soul within his breast — 
Such shallowness of fancy for his heart 
To drift about in — that he well believed 
Its anchor would lay hold on any smile 
The lees of womanhood might offer him. 
As for himself, he loved his brother well, 
Yet had far liefer see him stark and white 
In marble death than that his veins should burn 

365 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With such vitality as spent its flame 

So garishly it knew no steady blaze, 

But ever wavered round as veered the wind 

Of his conceit ; for he had made his boast— 

Tho' to his own shame did he speak of it — 

That with a wink he could buy every smile 

That virtue owned. So tattled Raelus 

Till, heated with his theme, he lifted voice 

And sang the song, "The Light of Woman's Eyes!" 

"O bright is gleaming morn on mountain height ; 
And bright the moon, slipt from its sheath of night, — 
But brighter is the light of woman's eyes. 

"And bright the dewdrop, trembling on the lip 
Of some red rose, or lily petal-tip, 

Or lash of pink, — but brighter woman's eyes. 

"Bright is the firefly's ever-drifting spark 
That throbs its pulse of light out in the dark; 

And bright the stars, — but brighter woman's eyes. 

"Bright morn or even ; bright or moon or star, 
And all the many twinkling lights that are, — 
O brighter than ye all are woman's eyes." 

So Raelus sang. — And they who rode with him 

Bewildered were, and even as he sang 

Went straggling, twos and threes, and fell behind 

To whisper wonderingly, "Is he a fool?" 

And "Does he waver in his mind?" and "Does 



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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The newness of adventure dazzle him ?" 

So spake they each to each, till far beyond, 

With but one loathful knight in company, 

They saw him quit the beaten track, and turn 

Into the grassy margin of a wood. 

And loitering, they fell in mocking jest 

Of their strange leader ! "See ! why, see !" said one, — 

"He needs no help to fight his hornets' nest, 

But one brave knight to squire him !" — pointing on 

To where fared on the two and disappeared. 

"O ay !" said one, "belike he is some old 

War-battered knight of long-forgotten age, 

That, bursting from his chrysalis, the grave, 

Comes back to show us tricks we never dreamed!" 

"Or haply," said another, with a laugh, — 

"He rides ahead to tell them that he comes 

And shrive them ere his courage catches up." 

And merry made they all, and each in turn 

Filliped a witty pellet at his head : 

Until, at last, their shadows shrunk away 

And shortened 'neath them and the hour was noon, 

They flung them from their horses listlessly 

Within the grassy margin of the wood 

Where had passed Raelus an hour agone : 

And, hungered, spied a rustic ; and they sent 

To have them such refreshment as might be 

Found at the nearest farm, — where, as it chanced, 

Was had most wholesome meat, and milk, and bread ; 

And honey, too, celled in its fretted vase 

Of gummy gold and dripping neetar-sweet 

As drcamed-of kisses from the lips of love; 



3^7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Wine, too, was broughten, rosy as the dawn 

That ushers in the morning of the heart; 

And tawny, mellow pear, whose golden ore 

Fell molten on the tongue and oozed away 

In creamy and delicious nothingness ; 

And netted melon, musky as the breath 

Of breezes blown from out the Orient; 

And purple clusterings of plum and grape, 

Blurred with a dust dissolving at the touch 

Like flakes the fairies had snowed over them. 

And as the idlers basked, with toast and song 

And graceful dalliance and wanton jest, 

A sound of trampling hooves and jingling reins 

Brake sudden, stilled them; and from out a dim 

Path leading from the bosky wood there came 

A troop of mounted damsels, nigh a score, 

Led by a queenly girl, in crimson clad, 

With lissome figure lithe and willowy, 

And face as fair and sweet and pure withal 

As might a maiden lily-blossom be 

Ere it has learned the sin of perfect bloom : 

Her hair, blown backward like a silken scarf 

And fondled by the sun, was glossier 

And bluer black than any raven's wing. 

"And O !" she laughed, not knowing she was heard 

By any but her fellows : "Men are fools !" 

Then drawing rein, and wheeling suddenly, 

Her charger mincing backward, — "Raelus — 

My Raelus is greater than ye all, 

Since he is such a fool that he forgets 

He is a man, and lets his tongue of love 



368 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Run babbling like a silly child's ; and, pah ! 

I puff him to the winds like thistle-down !"' 

And, wheeling as she spake, found staring up, 

Wide-eyed and wondering, a group of knights, 

Half lifted, as their elbows propped their heads, 

Half lying ; and one, smirker than the rest, 

Stood bowing very low, with upturned eyes 

Lit with a twinkling smile : "Fair lady — and 

Most gracious gentlewomen" — seeing that 

The others drew them back as tho' abashed 

And veiled their faces with all modesty, 

Tho' she, their leader, showed not any qualm, — 

"Since all unwittingly we overheard 

Your latest speech, and since we know at last 

'All men are fools/ right glad indeed am I 

That such a nest of us remains for you 

To vanquish with those eyes." Then, serious, 

That she nor smiled nor winced, nor anything — 

"Your pardon will be to me as a shower 

Of gracious rain unto a panting drouth." 

So bowed in humblest reverence; at which 

The damsel, turning to her followers, 

Laughed musically, — '"See ! he proves my words !" 

Whereat the others joined with inward glee 

Her pealing mirth; and in the merriment 

The knights chimed, too, and he, the vanquished one, 

Till all the wood rang as at hunting-tide 

When bugle-rumors float about the air 

And echoes leap and revel in delight. 

Then spake the vanquished knight, with mental eye 

Sweeping the vantage-ground that chance had gained. 



.<><) 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

"Your further pardon, lady: Since the name 

Of Raelus fell from those lips of thine, 

We fain would know of him. He led us here, 

And as he went the way wherefrom your path 

Emerges, haply you may tell us where 

He may be found ?" 

"What ! Raelus ?" she cried,— 
"He comes with you ? — The brave Sir Raelus ? — 
That mighty champion? — that gallant knight?— 
That peerless wonder of all nobleness? 
Then proud am I to greet ye, knowing that ; 
And, certes, had I known of it ere now, 
Then had I proffered you more courtesy 
And told you, ere the asking, that he bides 
The coming of his friends a league from this, 
Hard by a reedy mere, where in high tune 
We left him singing, nigh an hour agone." 
Then, as she lightly wheeled her horse about 
And signal gave to her companions 
To follow, gaily cried: "Tell Raelus 
His cousin sends to him her sad farewells 
And fond regrets, and kisses many as 
His valorous deeds are numbered in her heart." 
And with "Fair morrow to ye, gentle knights!" 
Her steed's hooves struck the highway at a bound; 
And dimly thro' the dust they saw her lead 
Her fluttering cavalcade as recklessly 
As might a queen of Araby, fleet-horsed, 
Skim o'er the level sands of Syria. 
So vanished. And the knights with one accord 
Put foot in stirrup, and, with puzzled minds 



370 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And many-channeled marvelings, filed in 

The woody path, and fared them on and on 

Thro' denser glooms, and ways more intricate; 

Till, mystified at last and wholly lost, 

They made full halt, and would have turned them back 

But that a sudden voice brake on their ears 

All piteous and wailing, as distressed: 

And, following these cries, they sharply came 

Upon an open road that circled round 

A reedy flat and sodden tract of sedge, 

Moated with stagnant water, crusted thick 

With slimy moss, wherein were wriggling things 

Entangled, and blind bubbles bulging up 

And bursting where from middle way upshot 

A tree-trunk, with its gnarled and warty hands 

As tho' upheld to clutch at sliding snakes 

Or nip the wet wings of the dragon-fly. 

Here gazing, lo ! they saw their comrade, he 

That had gone on with Raelus ; and he 

Was tugging to fling back into its place 

A heavy log that once had spanned the pool 

And made a footway to the sedgy flat 

Whence came the bitter wailing cries they heard. 

Then hastened they to join him in his task; 

But, panting, as they asked of Raelus, 

All winded with his work, yet jollier 

Than meadow-lark at morn, he sent his voice 

In such a twittering of merriment, 

The wail of sorrow died and laughter strewed 

Its grave with melody. 



371 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

"O Raelus ! 
Rare Raelus !" he cried and clapped his hands, 
And even in the weeds that edged the pool 
Fell wrestling with his mirth. — "Why, Raelus," 
He said, when he at last could speak again, 
"Drew magnet-like — you know that talk of his, — 
And so, adhesive, did I cling and cling 
Until I found us in your far advance, 
And, hidden in the wood, I stayed to say 
'Twas better we should bide your coming. 'No/ 
Then on again; and still a second time — 
'Shall we not bide their coming?' 'No!' he said; 
And on again, until the third ; and 'No — 
We'll push a little further/ As we did; 
And, sudden, came upon an open glade — 
There to the northward, — by a thicket bound: 
Then he dismounted, giving me his rein, 
And, charging me to keep myself concealed, 
And if he were not back a certain time 
To ride for you and search where he had gone, 
He crossed the opening and passed from sight 
Within the thicket. I was curious : 
And so, dismounting, tethered our two steeds 
And followed him ; and, creeping warily, 
Came on him where — unseen of him— I saw 
Him pause before the cave himself described 
Before us yesternoon. And here he put 
His ringers to his lips and gave a call 
Bird-like and quavering : at which a face, 
As radiant as summer sun at morn, 
Parted the viny curtains of the cave ; 
And then, a moment later, came in view 

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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

A woman even fairer than my sight 
Might understand. 'What ! dare you come again ?' 
As, lifting up her eyes all flashingly, 
She scorched him with a look of hate. — 'Begone ! 
Or have you — traitor, villain, knave, and cur, — 
B/ro't minions of the law to carry out 
The vengeance of your whimpering jealousy?' 
Then Raelus, all cowering before 
Her queenly anger, faltered: 'Hear me yet; 
I do not threaten. But your love — your love ! — 
O give me that. I know you pure as dew : 
Your love ! Your love ! — The smile that has gone out 
And left my soul a midnight of despair ! — 
Your love or life ! For I have even now 
Your stronghold girt about with certain doom 
If you but waver in your choice. — Your love !' 
At which, as quick as tho't, leapt on him there 
A strong man from the covert of the gloom; 
And others, like to him, from here and there 
Came scurrying. I, turning, would have fled, 
But found myself as suddenly beset 
And tied and tumbled there with Raelus. 
And him they haltered by his squirming heels 
Until he did confess such villainy 
As made me wonder if his wits were sound — 
Confessed himself a renegade — a thief — 
Ay, even one of them, save that he knew 
Not that nice honor even thieves may claim 
Among themselves. — And so ran on thro' such 
A catalogue of littlenesses, 1 
For deafest shame had even stopped my ears 
Bttt that my wrists were lockt. And when he eame 

#3 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

To his confession of his lie at court, 
By which was gained our knightly sympathy 
And valiant service on this fools' crusade, 
I seemed to feel the redness of my blush 
Soak thro' my very soul. There I brake in : 
'Fair lady and most gallant, — to my shame 
Do I admit we have been duped by such 
An ingrate as this bundled lump of flesh 
That I am helpless to rise up and spurn: 
Unbind me, and I promise such amends 
As knightly hands may deign to wreak upon 
A thing so vile as he/ Then, laughing, she : 
'First tell me, by your honor, where await 
Your knightly brothers and my enemies.' 
To which I answered, truthfully, I knew 
Not where you lingered, but not close at hand 
I was assured. Then all abrupt, she turned : 
'Get every one within ! We ride at once !' 
And scarce a dozen minutes ere they came 
Outpouring from the cave in such a guise 
As made me smile from very wonderment. — 
From head to heel in woman's dress they came, 
Clad richly, too, and trapped and tricked withal 
As maidenly, but in the face and hand, 
As ever damsels flock at holiday. 
Then were their chargers bro't, caparisoned 
In keeping; and they mounted, lifting us, 
Still bounden, with much jest and mockery 
Of soft caress and wanton blandishments, 
As tho' they were of sex their dress declared. 
And so they carried us until they came 
Upon the road there as it nicks the copse ; 

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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And so drew rein, dismounted, leaving some 

To guard their horses; hurried us across 

This footway to the middle of the flat. 

Here Raelus was bounden to a tree, 

Stript to the waist; my fetters cut, and then 

A long, keen switch put in my hand, and 'Strike ! 

Strike as all duty bids you !' said the queen. 

And so I did, with right good will at first ; 

Till, softened as I heard the wretch's prayers 

Of anguish, I at last withheld my hand. 

'What! tiring?' chirpt the queen: 'Give me the stick!' 

And swish, and swish, and mercy how it rained ! 

Then all the others, forming circlewise, 

Danced round and round the howling wretch, and jeered 

And japed at him, and mocked and scoffed at him, 

And spat upon him. And I turned away 

And hid my face ; then raised it pleadingly : 

Nor would they listen my appeal for him ; 

But left him so, and thonged and took me back 

Across the mere, and drew the bridge, that none 

Might go to him, and carried me with them 

Far on their way, and freed me once again; 

And back I turned, tho' loath, to succor him." 

And even as he ceased they heard the wail 

Break out anew, and crossed without a word, 

And Raelus they found, and without word 

They loosed him. And he brake away and ran 

As runs a lie the truth is hard upon. 

Thus did it fare with Raelus. And they 
Who knew of it said naught at court of it, 
Nor from that day spake ever of him once, 
Nor heard of him again, nor cared to hear. 

375 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
28/ My Bachelor Chum 

OA corpulent man is my bachelor chum, 
With a neck apoplectic and thick — 
An abdomen on him as big as a drum, 
And a fist big enough for the stick; 
With a walk that for grace is clear out of the case, 

And a wobble uncertain — as though 
His little bow-legs had forgotten the pace 
That in youth used to favor him so. 

He is forty, at least ; and the top of his head 

Is a bald and a glittering thing ; 
And his nose and his two chubby cheeks are as red 

As three rival roses in spring. 
His mouth is a grin with the corners tucked in, 

And his laugh is so breezy and bright 
That it ripples his features and dimples his chin 

With a billowy look of delight. 

He is fond of declaring he "don't care a straw" — 

That "the ills of a bachelor's life 
Are blisses compared with a mother-in-law, 

And a boarding-school miss for a wife !" 
So he smokes and he drinks, and he jokes and he winks, 

And he dines and he wines, all alone, 
With a thumb ever ready to snap as he thinks 

Of the comforts he never has known. 

But up in his den — (Ah, my bachelor chum!) — 

I have sat with him there in the gloom, 
When the laugh of his lips died away to become 

But a phantom of mirth in the room. 
376 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And to look on him there you would love him, for all 

His ridiculous ways, and be dumb 
As the little girl-face that smiles down from the wall 

On the tears of my bachelor chum. 



288 An Old Friend 

T T EY, Old Midsummer ! are you here again, 

-*- ■*■ With all your harvest-store of olden joys, — 

Vast overhanging meadow-lands of rain, 

And drowsy dawns, and noons when golden grain 

Nods in the sun, and lazy truant boys 
Drift ever listlessly adown the day, 
Too full of joy to rest, and dreams to play. 

The same old Summer, with the same old smile 

Beaming upon us in the same old way 
We knew in childhood ! Though a weary while 
Since that far time, yet memories reconcile 

The heart with odorous breaths of clover-hay; 
And again I hear the doves, and the sun streams through 
The old barn-door just as it used to do. 

And so it seems like welcoming a friend — 

An old, old friend, upon his coming home 

Erom some far country — coming home to spend 

Long, loitering days with me: And T extend 

My hand in rapturous glee: — And so you've come! 

Ho, T'm so glad! Come in and take a chair: 

Well, this is just like old times, 1 declare! 

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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
289 Edgar Wilson Nye 

FEBRUARY 22, 1 896 

T^HE saddest silence falls when Laughter lays 
**■ Finger on lip, and falteringly breaks 
The glad voice into dying minor shakes 
And quavers, lorn as airs the wind-harp plays 
At urge of drearest Winter's bleakest days : 
A troubled hush, in which all hope forsakes 
Us, and the yearning upstrained vision aches 
With tears that drown e'en heaven from our gaze. 
Such silence — after such glad merriment ! 
O prince of halest humor, wit and cheer ! 
Could you yet speak to us, I doubt not we 
Should catch your voice, still blithely eloquent 
Above all murmurings of sorrow here, 
Calling your love back to us laughingly. 



1 



290 I Smoke My Pipe 

CAN'T extend to every friend 
In need a helping hand — 
No matter though I wish it so, 
'Tis not as Fortune planned; 
But haply may I fancy they 
Are men of different stripe 
Than others think who hint and wink,- 
And so — I smoke my pipe ! 

A golden coal to crown the bowl — 
My pipe and I alone, — 
I sit and muse with idler views 
Perchance than I should own : — 
378 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

It might be worse to own the purse 
Whose glutted bowels gripe 
In little qualms of stinted alms ; 
And so I smoke my pipe. 

And if inclined to moor my mind 






And cast the anchor Hope, 

A puff of breath will put to death 

The morbid misanthrope 

That lurks inside — as errors hide 

In standing forms of type 

To mar at birth some line of worth 

And so I smoke my pipe. 



The subtle stings misfortune flings 

Can give me little pain 

When my narcotic spell has wrought 

This quiet in my brain : 

When I can waste the past in taste 

So luscious and so ripe 

That like an elf I hug myself; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 

And wrapped in shrouds of drifting clouds 

I watch the phantom's flight, 

Till alien eyes from Paradise 

Smile on me as I write : 

And I forgive the wrongs thai live, 

As lightly as I wipe 

Away the tear that rises here ; 

And so I smoke my pipe. 

379 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
291 Dave Field 

T ET me write you a rune of a rhyme, Dave Field, 
-*--' For the sake of the past we knew, 
When we were vagrants along the road, 

Yet glad as the skies were blue ; 
When we struck hands, as in alien lands 

Old friend to old friend is revealed, 
And each hears a tongue that he understands, 

And a laugh that he loves, Dave Field. 

Ho ! let me chant you a stave, Dave Field, 

Of those indolent days of ours, 
With our chairs atilt at the wayside inn 

Or our backs in the woodland flowers ; 
With your pipe alit, and the breath of it 

Like a nimbus about your head, 
While I sipped, like a monk, of your winey wit, 

With my matins all unsaid. 

Let me drone you a dream of the world, Dave Field, 

And the glory it held for us— 
You with your pencil-and-canvas dreams, 

And I with my pencil thus; 
Yet with never a thought of the prize we sought, 

Being at best but a pain, 
As we looked from the heights and our blurred eyes caught 

The scenes of our youth again. 

O, let me sing you a song, Dave Field, 

Jolly and hale, but yet 
With a quaver of pathos along the lines, 

And the throb of a vain regret ; — 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

A sigh for the dawn long dead and gone, 
But a laugh for the dawn concealed, 

As bravely a while we still toil on 
Toward the topmost heights, Dave Field. 



292 The Young Old Man 

VOLUNTARY BY ARTLESS "LITTLE BROTHER" 

IV /T AMMA is a widow : There's only us three- — 
*•**• Our pretty Mamma, little sister, and me: 
And we've come to live in this new neighborhood 
Where all seems so quiet, old-fashioned and good. 
Mamma sits and sews at the window, and I— 
I'm out at the gate when an old man goes by — 
Such a lovely old man, — though I can't tell you why, 

Unless it's his greeting, — "Good morning! 
Good morning! good morning!" the old man will say,- 
'Tine bracing weather we're having to-day ! — 
And how's little brother — 
And sister — and mother? — 
So dear to each other ! — 
Good morning!" 

The old man goes by, in his glossy high-hat, 
And stripe-trousers creased, and all turned-up, at that, 
And his glancing nose-glasses — and pleasantest eyes, 
As he smiles on me, always in newer surprise : 

And though his mustache is as white as the snow \ 
He wears it waxed out and all pointed, you know, 
And gloves, and high collar and bright, jaunty bow, 
And stylish umbrella — "Good morning ! 

3S1 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

"Good morning! good morning !" the old man will say,- 
"Fine falling weather we're promised to-day ! — 

And how's little brother — 

And sister — and mother? — 

So fond of each other ! — 
Good morning!" 



It's Christmas ! — it's Christmas ! and oh, but we're gay ! 
The postman's been here, and Ma says, "Run and play:- 
You must leave your Mamma to herself for a while !" 
And so sweet is her voice, and so tender her smile!— 
And she looks so pretty and happy and — Well ! — 
She's just too delicious for language to tell !- — 
So Sis hugs her more — and / answer the bell, — 

And there in the doorway — "Good morning! — 
Good morning ! good morning ! good morning, I say !- 
Fine Christmas weather we're having to-day ! — 
And how 's little brother — 
Dear sister — er, ruther — 
Why, here it your mother . . . 
Good morning!" 



202 Lockerbie Fair 

(^\ THE Lockerbie Fair ! — Have you heard of its fame 
^-^ And its fabulous riches, too rare for a name ! — 
The gold of the noon of the June-time refined 
To the Orient-Night, till the eyes and the mind 
Are dazed with the sights, in the earth and the air, 
Of the opulent splendors of Lockerbie Fair. 
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THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

What more fortunate fate might to mortal befall, 
Midst the midsummer beauty and bloom of it all, 
Than to glit with the moon o'er the rapturous scene 
And twink with the stars as they laughingly lean 
O'er the luminous revel and glamour and glare 
Fused in one dazzling glory at Lockerbie Fair. 

The Night, like a queen in her purple and lace, 
With her diamonded brow, and imperious grace, 
As she leads her fair votaries, train upon train, 
A-dance thro' the feasts of this mystic domain 
To the mandolin's twang, and the warble and blare 
Of voice, flute and bugle at Lockerbie Fair. 

All strange, ever-changing, enchanted delights 

Found now in this newer Arabian Nights,— 

Where each lovely maid is a Princess, and each 

Lucky swain an Aladdin — all treasures in reach 

Of the "lamps" and the "rings" — and with Genii to spare, 

Simply waiting your orders, at Lockerbie Fair. 



294 Ylladmar 

TJ ER hair was, oh, so dense a blur 
A ■*■ Of darkness, midnight envied her; 
And stars grew dimmer in the skies 
To see the glory of her eyes ; 
And all the summer-rain of light 
That! showered from the moon at night 
Fell o'er her features as the glpQftl 
Of twilight o'er a lily-bloom. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The crimson fruitage of her lips 
Was ripe and lush with sweeter wine 
Than burgundy or muscadine 
Or vintage that the burgher sips 
In some old garden on the Rhine : 
And I to taste of it could well 
Believe my heart a crucible 
Of molten love— and I could feel 
The drunken soul within me reel 
And rock and stagger till it fell. 

And do you wonder that I bowed 
Before her splendor as a cloud 
Of storm the golden-sandaled sun 
Had set his conquering foot upon? 
And did she will it, I could lie 
In writhing rapture down and die 
A death so full of precious pain 
I'd waken up to die again. 



2p5 "Go Read Your Book!" 

T T OW many times that grim old phrase 
* *- Has silenced me, in childish days !- 

And now— as then it did — 
The phantom admonition, clear 
And dominant, rings, — and I hear, 

And do as I am bid. 

"Go read your book!" my good old sire 
Commanded, in affected ire, 
384 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When I, with querying look 
And speech, dared vex his studious mind 
With idle words of any kind. — 

And so I read my book. 

Though seldom, in that wisest age, 
Did I discern on Wisdom's page 

More than the task: That led 
At least to thinking, and at last 
To reading less, and not so fast, 

And longing as I read. 

And, lo! in gracious time, I grew 

To love a book all through and through! — 

With yearning eyes I look 
On any volume, — old, maybe, 
Or new — 't is meat and drink to me. — 

And so I read my book. 

Old dog's-eared Readers, scarred and inked 
With school-boy hatred, long extinct ; — 

Old Histories that bored 
Me worst of all the school ; — old, worn 
Arithmetics, frayed, ripped, and torn — 

Now Ye are all adored. 

And likewise I revere and praise 
My sire, as now, with vainest gaze 

And hearing, still T look 
For the old face so grave yet dear — 
Nay, still I sec, and still I hear! 

And so I read my book. 
3*5 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Next even to my nearest kin, — 
My wife — my children romping in 

From school to ride my knee, — 
I love a book, and dispossess 
My lap of it with loathfulness, 

For all their love of me. 

For, grave or gay the book, it takes 
Me as an equal — calms, or makes 

Me, laughing, overlook 
My little self— forgetful all 
Of being so exceeding small. 

And so I read my book. 



296 The Tribute of His Home 

BENJAMIN HARRISON, INDIANAPOLIS 
MARCH 14, 1901 

T) OWED, midst a universal grief that makes 
*-* . Columbia's self a stricken mourner, cast 

In tears beneath the old Flag at half-mast, 
A sense of glory rouses us and breaks 
Like song upon our sorrowing and shakes 

The dew from our drenched eyes, that smile at last 

In childish pride — as though the great man passed 
To his most high reward for our poor sakes. 
Loved of all men — we muse,— yet ours he was — 

Choice of the Nation's mighty brotherhood — 
Her soldier, statesman, ruler. — Ay, but then, 
We knew him — long before the world's applause 

And after — as a neighbor, kind and good, 
Our common friend and fellow-citizen. 
3S6 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
^97 Songs of a Life-Time 

MRS. SARAH T. BOLTON'S POEMS 
1897 

SONGS of a Life-Time — with the Singer's head 
A silvery glory shining midst the green 
Of laurel-leaves that bind a brow serene 
And godlike as was ever garlanded. — 
So seems her glory who herein has wed 
Melodious Beauty to the strong of mien 
And kingly Speech — made kinglier by this queen 
In lilied cadence voiced and raimented. 
Songs of a Life-Time; by your own sweet stress 
Of singing were ye loved of bygone years — 
As through our day ye are, and shall be hence, 
Till fame divine marks your melodiousness 

And on the Singer's lips, with smiles and tears, 
Seals there the kiss of love and reverence. 



298 Unless 

"X^THO has not wanted does not guess 
* * What plenty is. — Who has not groped 

In depths of doubt and hopelessness 
Has never truly hoped. — 

Unless, sometimes, a shadow falls 
Upon his mirth, and veils his sight. 
And from the darkness drifts the light 

Of love at intervals. 

3S7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And that most dear of everything, 
I hold, is love; and who can sit 

With lightest heart and laugh and sing, 
Knows not the worth of it. — 

Unless, in some strange throng, perchance, 
He feels how thrilling sweet it is, 
One yearning look that answers his — 

The troth of glance and glance. 

Who knows not pain, knows not, alas ! 

What pleasure is. — Who knows not of 
The bitter cup that will not pass, 

Knows not the taste of love. 
O souls that thirst, and hearts that fast, 

And natures faint with famishing, 

God lift and lead and safely bring 
You to your own at last! 



?pp Envoy 

DE our fortunes as they may, 
*-* Touched with loss or sorrow, 
Saddest eyes that weep to-day 
May be glad to-morrow. 

Yesterday the rain was here, 
And the winds were blowing — 

Sky and earth and atmosphere 
Brimmed and overflowing. 

388 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But to-day the sun is out, 
And the drear November 

We were then so vexed about 
Now we scarce remember. 

Yesterday you lost a friend — 
Bless your heart and love it ! — 

For you scarce could comprehend 
All the aching of it; — 

But I sing to you and say : 
Let the lost friend sorrow — 

Here's another come to-day, 
Others may to-morrow. 



389 



MORNING 



300 Morning 

"DREATH of Morning— breath of May- 
*~* With your zest of yesterday 
And crisp, balmy freshness, smite 
Our old hearts with Youth's delight. 

Tilt the cap of Boyhood — yea, 
Where no "forelock" waves, to-day, — 
Back, in breezy, cool excess, 
Stroke it with the old caress. 

Let us see as we have seen — 
Where all paths are dewy-green, 
And all human-kind are kin- 
Let us be as we have been ! 



jo/ The Great God Pan 

"What was he doing, the great god Pan?" 

— Mrs. Browning. 

OPAN is the goodliest god, I wist, 
Of all of the lovable gods that be !— 
For his two strong hands were the first to twist 
From the depths of the current, through spatter and mist, 

The long-hushed reeds that he pressed in glee 
To his murmurous mouth, as he chuckled and kissed 
Their souls into melody. 

390 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the wanton winds are in love with Pan: 
They loll in the shade with him day by day ; 

And betimes as beast, and betimes as man, 

They love him as only the wild winds can, — 
Or sleeking the coat of his limbs one way, 

Or brushing his brow with the locks they fan 
To the airs he loves to play. 

And he leans by the river, in gloom and gleam, 
Blowing his reeds as the breezes blow — 

His cheeks puffed out, and his eyes in a dream, 

And his hoof-tips, over the leaves in the stream, 
Tapping the time of the tunes that flow 

As sweet as the drowning echoes seem 
To his rollicking wraith below. 



202 His Heart of Constant Youth 

"And I never hear the drums beat 
that I do not think of him'* 

— Major Charles L. Hoist cin. 

r I ^URN through his life, each word and deed 

-^ Now sacred as it is — 
How helped and soothed we are to read 
A history like his ! 

To turn the years, in far review, 

And find him — as To-day — 
In orchard-lands of bloom and dew 

Again a boy at play : 
39 1 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The jeweled grass—the sumptuous trees 
And flower and fragrance there, 

With song of birds and drone of bees 
And Springtime everywhere: 

Turn any chapter that we will, 

Read any page, in sooth, 
We find his glad heart owning still 

The freshness of his youth. 

With such a heart of tender care 
He loved his own, and thus 

His home was, to the loved ones there, 
A temple glorious. 

And, ever youthful, still his love 

Enshrined, all manifold, 
The people — all the poor thereof, 

The helpless and the old. 

And little children — Ah! to them 

His love was as the sun 
Wrought in a magic diadem 

That crowned them, every one. 

And ever young his reverence for 
The laws : like morning-dew 

He shone as counsel, orator, 
And clear logician, too. 



392 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, as a boy, his gallant soul 

Made answer to the trill 
Of battle-trumpet and the roll 

Of drums that echo still: 

His comrades— as his country, dear— 

They knew, and ever knew 
That buoyant, boyish love, sincere 

As truth itself is true : 

He marched with them, in tireless tramp- 
Laughed, cheered and lifted up 

The battle-chorus, and in camp 
Shared blanket, pipe and cup. 

His comrades ! . . . When you meet again, 

In anguish though you bow, 
Remember how he loved you then, 

And how he loves you now. 



303 The Soldier 

The Dedication of the Soldiers' and Sailors' Monu- 
ment, Indianapolis, May 15, 1902 

npilE Soldier! — meek the title, yet divine: 

* Therefore, with reverence, as with wild acclaim, 
We fain would honor in exalted line 

The glorious lineage o£ the glorious name: 
The Soldier. — To, lie ever was and is. 

Our Country's high custodian, by right 
Of patriot blood that brims that heart of his 

With fiercest love, yet honor infinite. 

598 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The Soldier — within whose inviolate care 

The Nation takes repose, — her inmost fane 
Of Freedom ever has its guardian there, 

As have her forts and fleets on land and main : 
The Heavenward Banner, as its ripples stream 

In happy winds, or float in languid flow, 
Through silken meshes ever sifts the gleam 

Of sunshine on its Sentinel below. 

The Soldier ! — Why, the very utterance 

Is music — as of rallying bugles, blent 
With blur of drums and cymbals and the chants 

Of battle-hymns that shake the continent!— 
The thunder-chorus of a world is stirred 

To awful, universal jubilee, — 
Yet ever through it, pure and sweet, are heard 

The prayers of Womanhood, and Infancy. 

Even as a fateful tempest sudden loosed 

Upon our senses, so our thoughts are blown 
Back where The Soldier battled, nor refused 

A grave all nameless in a clime unknown. — 
The Soldier— though, perchance, worn, old and gray; 

The Soldier — though, perchance, the merest lad,— 
The Soldier — though he gave his life away, 

Hearing the shout of "Victory," was glad; 

Aye, glad and grateful, that in such a cause 

His veins were drained at Freedom's holy shrine — 

Rechristening the land — as first it was — 
His blood poured thus in sacramental sign 



394 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Of new baptism of the hallowed name 

"My Country" — now on every lip once more 

And blest of God with still enduring fame. — 
This thought even then The Soldier gloried o'er — 

The dying eyes upraised in rapture there, — 

As, haply, he remembered how a breeze 
Once swept his boyish brow and tossed his hair, 

Under the fresh bloom of the orchard-trees — 
When his heart hurried, in some wistful haste 

Of ecstasy, and his quick breath was wild 
And balmy-sharp and chilly-sweet to taste, — 

And he towered godlike, though a trembling child ! 

Again, through luminous mists, he saw the skies' 

Far fields white-tented; and in gray and blue 
And dazzling gold, he saw vast armies rise 

And fuse in fire — from which, in swiftest view, 
The Old Flag soared, and friend and foe as one 

Blent in an instant's vivid mirage . . . Then 
The eyes closed smiling on the smiling sun 

That changed the seer to a child again. — 

And, even so, The Soldier slept. — Our own ! — 

The Soldier of our plaudits, flowers and tears, — 
O this memorial of bronze and stone — 

His love shall outlast this a thousand years ! 
Yet, as the towering symbol bids us do, — 

With soul saluting, as salutes the hand, 
We answer as The Soldier answered to 

The Captain's high command. 



305 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

304 The Little Woman 

TV j\ Y little woman, of you I sing 
IV L With a fervor all divine, — 
For I know the clasp of the hands that cling 
So closely here in mine. 

Though the rosy palms I used to press 

Are faded and worn with care, 
And tremulous is the old caress 

That nestles in my hair, — 

Your heart to me is a changeless page; 

I have read it bit by bit, 
From the dawn of love to the dusk of age, — 

And the tale is Holy Writ. 

Fold your eyes,— for the twilight bends 

As a mother o'er her child — 
Even as when, in the long-lost Then, 

You bent o'er ours and smiled. . . . 

(Nay, but I spoke all unaware! 

See! I am kneeling, too, 
And with mine, dear, is the rose's prayer, 

With a blur of tears and dew.) 

But O little woman, I often grieve, 
As I think of the vanished years 

And trace the course of the cares that leave 
Your features dim with tears: 



396 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I often grieve, for the frowns I wore 
When the world seemed all untrue, — 

When my hard, proud heart was sick and sore 
And would not come to you ! 

I often grieve, as I hold your hand — 

As I hold your hand to-night, — 
That it takes so long to understand 

The lesson of love aright ! 

But sing the song that I taught you once, 

Dear little woman, as then 
Away far back in the golden months ; — 

Sing me the song again! 

For, as under the stars we loved of yore 
When the nights of love were long, 

Your poor, pale lips grow glad once more 
And I kiss them into song: — 

My little woman's hands are fair 

As even the moonflowers be 
When fairies creep in their depths and sleep 

Till the sun leaps out o* the sea. 

And O her eyes, they are spheres of liglit — 

So brighter than stars are tliey. 
The brightest day is the darkest night 

When my little woman's au'dy. 

307 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK * 

For my little woman has ever a tear 

And a sigh when I am sad; 
And I have a thousand smiles for her 

When my little woman is glad. 

But my little woman is strong and brave, 

For all of her tears and sighs, 
Her stanch little heart knows how to behave 

Whenever the storms arise. 

My little woman, of you I sing 

With a fervor all divine, — 
For I know the clasp of the hands that cling 

So closely here in mine. 



305 America 

Buffalo, New York, September 14, 1901 
O Thou, America — Messiah of Nations! 



T N the need that bows us thus 

-^ America ! 

Shape a mighty song for us — 

America ! 
Song to whelm a hundred years' 
Roar of wars and rain of tears 
'Neath a world's triumphant cheers : 

America ! America ! 
398 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



ii 



Lift the trumpet to thy mouth, 
America ! 

East and West and North and South- 
America ! 

Call us round the dazzling shrine 

Of the starry old ensign — 

New-baptized in blood of thine, 
America ! America ! 

in 

Dying eyes through pitying mists, 

America ! 
See the Assassin's shackled wrists, 

America ! 
Patient eyes that turn their sight 
From all blackening crime and blight 
Still toward Heaven's holy light — 

America ! America ! 

IV 

High o'erlooking sea and land, 

America ! 
Trustfully with outheld hand, 

America ! 
Thou dost welcome all in quest 
Of thy freedom, pence and rest — 
Every exile is thy guest, 

America! America! 
309 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



Thine a universal love, 

America ! 
Thine the cross and crown thereof, 

America ! 
Aid us, then, to sing thy worth : 
God hath builded, from thy birth, 
The first nation of the earth — 

America ! America ! 



306 General Lew Wallace 

February 15, 1905 

\T AY, Death, thou mightiest of all 

-^ ^ Dread conquerors— thou dreadest chief,- 

Thy heavy hand can here but fall 

Light as the Autumn leaf : 
As vainly, too, its weight is laid 

Upon the warrior's knightly sword; — 
Still through the charge and cannonade 

It flashes for the Lord. 

In forum — as in battlefield-— 

His voice rang for the truth — the right — 
Keyed with the shibboleth that pealed 

His Soul forth to the fight : 
The inspiration of his pen 

Glowed as a star, and lit anew 
The faces and the hearts of men 

Watching, the long night through. 
400 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

A destiny ordained — divine 

It seemed to hosts of those who saw 
His rise since youth and marked the line 

Of his assent with awe : — 
From the now-storied little town 

That gave him birth and worth, behold, 
Unto this day of his renown, 

His sword and word of gold. 

Serving the Land he loved so well — 

Hailed midsea or in foreign port, 
Or in strange-bannered citadel 

Or Oriental Court, — 
He — honored for his Nation's sake, 

And loved and honored for his own — 
Hath seen his Flag in glory shake 

Above the Pagan Throne. 



307 A Humble Singer 

A MODEST singer, with meek soul and heart, 
-**- Sat, yearning that his art 
Might but inspire and suffer him to sing 
Even the simplest thing. 

And as he sang thus humbly, came a Voice : — 
"All mankind shall rejoice, 
Hearing thy pure and simple melody 
Sing on immortally." 



401 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK , 

308 The Hoosier in Exile 

.HTHE Hoosier in Exile— a toast 

-** That by its very sound 
Moves us, at first, to tears almost, 

And sympathy profound; 
But musing for a little space, 

We lift the glass and smile, 
And poise it with a royal grace — 

The Hoosier in Exile! 

The Hoosier in Exile, forsooth ! 

For though his steps may roam 
The earth's remotest bounds, in truth 

His heart is ever home! 
O loyal still to every tie 

Of native fields and streams, 
His boyhood friends, and paths whereby 

He finds them in his dreams ! 

Though he may fare the thronging maze 

Of alien city streets, 
His thoughts are set in grassy ways 

And woodlands' cool retreats ; 
Forever, clear and sweet above 

The traffic's roar and din, 
In breezy groves he hears the dove, 

And is at peace within. 

When newer friends and generous hands 

Advance him; he returns 
Due gratefulness, yet, pausing, stands 

As one who strangely yearns 
402. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

To pay still further thanks, but sighs 
To think he knows not where, 

Till — like as life — with misty eyes 
He sees his mother there. 

The Hoosier in Exile? Ah, well, 

Accept the phrase, but know 
The Hoosier heart must ever dwell 

Where orchard blossoms grow 
The whitest, apples reddest, and, 

In cornlands, mile on mile, 
The old homesteads forever stand — 

"The Hoosier in Exile!" 



309 Longfellow 

i8o7-February 27—1907 



/^\ GENTLEST kinsman of Humanity ! 
^-^ Thy love hath touched all hearts, even as thy Song 
Hath touched all chords of music that belong 
To the quavering heaven-strung harp of harmony : 
Thou hast made man to feel and hear and see 
Divinely; — made the weak to be the strong; 
By thy melodious magic, changed the wrong 
To changeless right — and joyed and wept as we. 
Worlds listen, lulled and solaced at the spell 
That folds and holds us — soul and body, too, — 
As though thy songs, as loving arms in stress 
Of sympathy and trust ineffable, 
Where thrown about us thus by one who knew 
Our common human need of kindliness. 
403 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

jio The Quest of the Fathers 

"\ ^ THAT were our Forefathers trying to find 

* * When they weighed anchor, that desperate hour 
They turned from home, and the warning wind 

Sighed in the sails of the old Mayflower? 
What sought they that could compensate 

Their hearts for the loved ones left behind — 
The household group at the glowing grate ?— 

What were our Forefathers trying to find? 

What were they trying to find more dear 

Than their native land and its annals old, — 
Its throne — its church — and its worldly cheer — 

Its princely state, and its hoarded gold? 
What more dear than the mounds of green 

There o'er the brave sires, slumbering long? 
What more fair than the rural scene — 

What more sweet than the throstle's song? 

Faces pallid, but sternly set, 

Lips locked close, as in voiceless prayer, 
And eyes with never a teardrop wet — 

Even the tenderest woman's there! 
But O the light from the soul within, 

As each spake each with a flashing mind- 
As the lightning speaks to its kith and kin ! 

What were our Forefathers trying to find? 

Argonauts of a godless day — 

Seers of visions, and dreamers vain ! 
Their ship's foot set in a pathless way, — 

The fogs, the mists, and the blinding rain ! — 
404 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When the gleam of sun, and moon and star 
Seemed lost so long they were half forgot — 

When the fixed eyes found nor near nor far, 
And the night whelmed all, and the world was not. 

And yet, befriended in some strange wise, 

They groped their way in the storm and stress 
Through which — though their look found not the skies- 

The Lord's look found them ne'ertheless- — 
Found them, yea, in their piteous lot, 

As they in their faith from the first divined — 
Found them, and favored them — too. But what — 

What were our Forefathers trying to find? 

Numb and agasp, with the frost for breath, 

They came on a frozen shore, at last, 
As bleak and drear as the coasts of death, — 

And yet their psalm o'er the wintry blast 
Rang glad as though 'twere the chiming mirth 

Of jubilant children landing there — 
Until o'er all of the icy earth 

The snows seemed warm, as they knelt in prayer. 

For, lo ! they were close on the trail they sought : — 

In the sacred soil of the rights of men 
They marked where the Master-hand had wrought ; 

And there they garnered and sowed again. — 
Their land — then ours, as to-day it is, 

With its flag of heaven's own light designed, 
And God's vast love o'er all. . . . And this 

Is what our Forefathers were trying to find. 



405 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
7ii The Loveliness 

AH, what a long and loitering way 
**■*• And ever-lovely way, in truth, 
We travel on from day to day 
Out of the realms of youth ! 

How eagerly we onward press 
The lovely path that lures us still 

With ever-changing loveliness 
Of grassy vale and hill : 

Of groves of May and morning-lands 

Dew-diamonded and gemmed with bloom; 

With amber streams and golden sands 
And aisles of gleam and gloom; 

Where lovely little Fairy-folk, 
In careless ambush, pipe and call 

From tousled ferns 'neath elm and oak 
By shoal and waterfall : 

Transparent even as the stream, 
The gnarled prison-tree reveals 

Its lovely Dryad in a dream 
That scarce itself conceals; 

The sudden redbird trips the sight 
And tricks the ear — or doubtless we 

With happy palms had clapped the Sprite 
In new captivity. 



406 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

On — on, through all the gathering years, 
Still gleams the loveliness, though seen 

Through dusks of loss and mists of tear 
That vainly intervene. 

Time stints us not of lovely things — 
Old Age hath still a treasure-store, — 

The loveliness of songs and wings 
And voices on before. — 

And — loveliness beyond all grace 
Of lovely words to say or sing, — 

The loveliness of Hope's fair face 
Forever brightening. 



312 The Country Editor 

A THOUGHTFUL brow and face— of sallow hue, 
^ ^ But warm with welcome, as we find him there, 

Throned in his old misnomered "easy-chair," 
Scrawling a "leader," or a book-review; 
Or staring through the roof for something new 

With which to lift a wretched rival's hair, 

Or blow some petty clique in empty air 
And snap the party-ligaments in two. 

A man he is deserving well of thee, — 
So be compassionate — yea, pay thy dues, 

Nor pamper him with thy spring poetry, 
But haul him wood, or something be can use; 

And promptly act, nor tarry Long when he 

Gnaweth his pen and glafceth rabidly. 
407 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
3 jj His Last Picture 

r I A HE skies have grown troubled and dreary; 

-■* The clouds gather fold upon fold; 

The hand of the painter is weary 

And the pencil has dropped from its hold: 
The easel still leans in the grasses, 

And the palette beside on the lawn, 
But the rain o'er the sketch as it passes 

Weeps low — for the artist is gone. 

The flowers whose fairy-like features 

Smiled up in his own as he wrought 
And the leaves and the ferns were his teachers, 

And the tints of the sun what they taught ; 
The low-swinging vines, and the mosses — 

The shadow-filled boughs of the trees, 
And the blossomy spray as it tosses 

The song of the bird to the breeze., 

The silent white laugh of the lily 

He learned; and the smile of the rose 
Glowed back on his spirit until he 

Had mastered the blush as it glows ; 
And his pencil has touched and caressed them, 

And kissed them, through breaths of perfume, 
To the canvas that yet shall have blessed them 

With years of unwithering bloom. 

Then come ! — Leave his palette and brushes 
And easel there, just as his hand 

Has left them, ere through the dark hushes 
Of death, to the shadowy land, 
408 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

He wended his way, happy-hearted 
As when, in his youth, his rapt eyes 

Swept the pathway of Fame where it started, 
To where it wound into the skies. 



Si 4 An Empty Nest 

T FIND an old deserted nest, 
-*■ Half-hidden in the underbrush : 
A withered leaf, in phantom jest, 
Has nestled in it like a thrush 
With weary, palpitating breast. 

I muse as one in sad surprise 

Who seeks his childhood's home once more, 
And finds it in a strange disguise 

Of vacant rooms and naked floor, 
With sudden teardrops in his eyes. 

An empty nest ! It used to bear 
A happy burden, when the breeze 

Of summer rocked it, and a pair 
Of merry tattlers told the trees 

What treasures they had hidden there. 

But Fancy, flitting through the gleams 
Of youth's sunshiny atmosphere, 

Has fallen in the past, and seems, 
Like this poor leaflet nest led here, — 

A phantom guest of empty dreams. 
409 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

315 A Spring Song and a Later 
CHE sang a song of May for me, 
w -' Wherein once more I heard 
The mirth of my glad infancy — 

The orchard's earliest bird — 
The joyous breeze among the trees 

New-clad in leaf and bloom, 
And there the happy honey-bees 

In dewy gleam and gloom. 

So purely, sweetly on the sense 

Of heart and spirit fell 
Her song of Spring, its influence — 

Still irresistible, — 
Commands me here— with eyes ablur — 

To mate her bright refrain, 
Though I but shed a rhyme for her 

As dim as Autumn rain. 

316 On Reading Dr. Henry Van Dyke's 

Volume of Poems — Music 
TV /T USIC! — Yea, and the airs you play — 
-***-*• Out of the faintest Far- Away 
And the sweetest, too; and the dearest Here, 
With its quavering voice but its bravest cheer — 
The prayer that aches to be all expressed — 
The kiss of love at its tenderest : 
Music — music, with glad heart-throbs 
Within it; and music with tears and sobs 
Shaking it, as the startled soul 
Is shaken at shriek of the fife and roll 
Of the drums; — then as suddenly lulled again 
With the whisper and lisp of the summer rain : 
410 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Mist of melodies fragrance-fine — 

The birdsong flicked from the eglantine 

With the dews when the springing bramble throws 

A rarer drench on its ripest rose, 

And the winged song soars up and sinks 

To the dove's dim coo by the river-brinks 

Where the ripple's voice still laughs along 

Its glittering path of light and song. 

Music, O Poet, and all your own 

By right of capture and that alone, — 

For in it we hear the harmony 

Born of the earth and the air and the sea, 

And over and under it, and all through, 

We catch the chime of The Anthem, too. 



j i J The Rose- Lady 



TO THE ROSES 



R 



f DREAM that you are kisses Allah sent 
-■■ In forms material, that all the earth 

May taste of you and guess of Heaven's worth, 
Since it can waste such sweetness with content, — 
Seeing you showered o'er the Battlement — 

By Angel-hands plucked ripe from lips of mirth 

And flung in lavish clusters, yet no dearth 
Of rapture for the Anthem! ... I have bent 

Above you, nestled in some low retreat, 
Pressing your velvet mouths against the dust, 

And, ever nurturing (his old conceit, 
Have lifted up your lips in per feet trust 

Against my mouth, nor found them the less sweet 

For having kissed the dust beneath my feet. 
411 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

318 Henry Irving 
[October 13, 1905] 

'HP IS Art reclaims him! By those gifts of hers 
-*■ With which so nobly she endowed his mind, 
He brought back Shakespeare, in quick grief and glee- 
Tasting the worlds salt tears and sweet applause, — 
For, even as through his master's, so there ran 
Through all his multitudinous characters 
Kinship and love and honor of mankind. 
So all mankind shall grace his memory 
In musing proudly : Great as his genius was, 
Great likewise was the man. 

319 We Must Believe 

"Lord, I believe: help Thou mine unbelief'* 
1 
"X \ J"E must believe — 
^ * Being from birth endowed with love and trust— 
Born unto loving;— and how simply just 
That love — that faith! — even in the blossom-face 
The babe drops dreamward in its resting-place, 
Intuitively conscious of the sure 
Awakening to rapture ever pure 
And sweet and saintly as the mother's own 
Or the awed father's, as his arms are thrown 
O'er wife and child, to round about them weave 
And wind and bind them as one harvest-sheaf 
Of love — to cleave to, and forever cleave. . . . 
Lord, I believe: 

Help Thou mine unbelief. 
412 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

ii 
We must believe — 

Impelled since infancy to seek some clear 
Fulfilment, still withheld all seekers here; — 
For never have we seen perfection nor 
The glory we are ever seeking for : 
But we have seen — all mortal souls as one — 
Have seen its promise, in the morning sun — 
Its blest assurance, in the stars of night; — 
The ever-dawning of the dark to light; — 
The tears down-falling from all eyes that grieve — 

The eyes uplifting from all deeps of grief, 
Yearning for what at last we shall receive. . . . 
Lord, I believe : 

Help Thou mine unbelief. 

in 
We must believe : 

For still all unappeased our hunger goes, 
From life's first waking, to its last repose: 
The briefest life of any babe, or man 
Outwearing even the allotted span, 
Is each a life unfinished — incomplete : 
For these, then, of th' outworn, or unworn feet 
Denied one toddling step — O there must be 
Some fair, green, flowery pathway endlessly 
Winding through lands Elysian ! Lord, receive 

And lead each as Thine Own Child — even the Chief 
Of us who didst Immortal life achieve. . . . 
Lord, I believe : 

Help Thou mine unbelief. 



413 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

320 Even as a Child 

Canton, September 19, 1901 

7 ^ VEN as a child to whom sad neighbors speak 
■*— ' In symbol, saying that his father "sleeps" — 
Who feels their meaning, even as his cheek 

Feels the first teardrop as it stings and leaps — 
Who keenly knows his loss, and yet denies 

Its awful import — grieves unreconciled, 
Moans, drowses— rouses, with new-drowning eyes- 
Even as a child. 

Even as a child; with empty, aimless hand 
Clasped sudden to the heart all hope deserts— 

With tears that blur all lights on sea or land — 
The lip that quivers and the throat that hurts : 

Even so, the Nation that has known his love 
Is orphaned now ; and, whelmed in anguish wild, 
Knows but its sorrow and the ache thereof, 
Even as a child. 



321 An Autumnal Tonic 

\\ THAT mystery is it? The morning as rare 

* ^ As the Indian Summer may bring! 
A tang in the frost and a spice in the air 

That no city poet can sing ! 
The crimson and amber and gold of the leaves, 

As they loosen and flutter and fall 
In the path of the park, as it rustlingly weaves 
Its way through the maples and under the eaves 

Of the sparrows that chatter and call. 
,414 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

What hint of delight is it tingles me through? — 

What vague, indefinable joy? 
What yearning for something divine that I knew 

When a wayward and wood-roving boy? 
Ah-ha ! and O-ho ! but I have it, I say — 

Oh, the mystery brightens at last, — 
"lis the longing and zest of the far, far away, 
For a bountiful, old-fashioned dinner to-day, 

With the hale harvest-hands of the past. 



322 The Rainy Morning 

'T^HE dawn of the day was dreary, 

■*• And the lowering clouds o'erhead 
Wept in a silent sorrow 

Where the sweet sunshine lay dead; 
And a wind came out of the eastward 

Like an endless sigh of pain, 
And the leaves fell down in the pathway 

And writhed in the falling rain. 

I had tried in a brave endeavor 

To chord my harp with the sun, 
But the strings would slacken ever, 

And the task was a weary one : 
And so, like a child impatient 

And sick of a discontent, 
I bowed in a shower of teardrops 

And mourned with the instrument. 



4i5 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And lo! as I bowed, the splendor 

Of the sun bent over me, 
With a touch as warm and tender 

As a father's hand might be : 
And, even as I felt its presence, 

My clouded soul grew bright, 
And the tears, like the rain of morning, 

Melted in mists of light. 

323 We Must Get Home 

T \ TE must get home! How could. we stray like this ?- 

* * So far from home, we know not where it is, — 
Only in some fair, apple-blossomy place 
Of children's faces — and the mother's face — 
We dimly dream it, till the vision clears 
Even in the eyes of fancy, glad with tears. 

We must get home — for we have been away 
So long, it seems forever and a day ! 
And O so very homesick we have grown, 
The laughter of the world is like a moan 
In our tired hearing, and its song as vain, — 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 

We must get home ! With heart and soul we yearn 
To find the long-lost pathway, and return ! . . . 
The child's shout lifted from the questing band 
Of old folk, faring weary, hand in hand, 
But faces brightening, as if clouds at last 
Were showering sunshine on us as they passed. 

416 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

We must get home: It hurts so, staying here, 
Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear, 
And where to wear wet lashes means, at best, 
When most our lack, the least our hope of rest — 
When most our need of joy, the more our pain — 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 

We must get home — home to the simple things — 
The morning-glories twirling up the strings 
And bugling color, as they blared in blue- 
And-white o'er garden-gates we scampered through; 
The long grape-arbor, with its under-shade 
Blue as the green and purple overlaid. 

We must get home : All is so quiet there : 
The touch of loving hands on brow and hair — 
Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild — 
The lost love of the mother and the child 
Restored in restful lullabies of rain, — 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 

The rows of sweetcorn and the China beans 
Beyond the lettuce-beds where, towering, leans 
The giant sunflower in barbaric pride 
Guarding the barn-door and the lane outside; 
The honeysuckles, midst the hollyhocks, 
That clamber almost to the martin-box. 

We must get home, where, as wo nod and drowse, 
Time humors us and tiptoes through the house, 
And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise, 



417 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With dreams— not tear-drops — brimming our clenched 

eyes,— 
Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain — 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 

We must get home ! There only may we find 
The little playmates that we left behind, — 
Some racing down the road ; some by the brook ; 
Some droning at their desks, with wistful look 
Across the fields and orchards— farther still 
Where laughs and weeps the old wheel at the mill. 

We must get home ! The willow-whistle's call 
Trills crisp and liquid as the waterfall — 
Mocking the trillers in the cherry-trees 
And making discord of such rhymes as these, 
That know nor lilt nor cadence but the birds 
First warbled— then all poets afterwards. 

We must get home; and, unremembering there 
All gain of all ambition otherwhere, 
Rest — from the feverish victory, and the crown 
Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down. — 
Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain — 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 

We must get home again — we must — we must ! — 
(Our rainy faces pelted in the dust) 
Creep back from the vain quest through endless strife 
To find not anywhere in all of life 
A happier happiness than blest us then. . . . 
We must get home — we must get home again ! 
418 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

324 Sis Rapalye 

TIT" HEN rainy-greener shoots the grass 

* * And blooms the cherry-tree, 
And children laugh by glittering brooks, 

Wild with the ecstasy 
Of bursting Spring, with twittering bird 
And hum of honey-bee, — 
"Sis Rapalye !" my spirit shouts . . . 
And she is here with me ! 

As laughs the children, so her laugh 

Haunts all the atmosphere; — 
Her song is in the brooks refrain ; 

Her glad eyes, flashing clear, 
Are in the morning dews; her speech 

Is melody so dear, 
The bluebird trills, — '"Sis Rapalye! — 

I hear ! — I hear ! — I hear !" 

Again in races, at "Recess," 

I see her braided hair 
Toss past me as I stay to lift 

Her straw hat, fallen there; 
The school-bell sends a vibrant pang 

My heart can hardly bear. — 
Yet still she leads — Sis Rapalye — 

And leads me everywhere ! 

Now I am old. — Yet she remains 
The selfsame child of ton. — 

Gay, gallant little girl, to race 
On into 1 leaven then ! 
-I") 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Yet gallant, gay Sis Rapalye — 

In blossom-time, and when 
The trees and grasses beckon her — 

Comes back to us again. 

And so, however long since youth 

Whose raptures wild and free 
An old man's heart may claim no more, — 

With more than memory 
I share the Spring's own joy that brings 

My boyhood back to me 
With laughter, blossoms, singing birds 

And sweet Sis Rapalye. 



325 The Voice of Peace 

Independence Bell 
Indianapolis, November 17, 1904 

HP HOUGH now forever still 
-** Your voice of jubilee — 
We hear— we hear, and ever will, 

The Bell of Liberty! 
Clear as the voice to them 

In that far night agone 
Pealed from the heavens o'er Bethlehem, 

The voice of Peace peals on ! 

Stir all your memories up, 

O Independence Bell, 
And pour from your inverted cup 

The song we love so well ! 
420 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

As you rang in the dawn 

Of Freedom — tolled the knell 

Of Tyranny, — ring on — ring on — 
O Independence Bell ! 

Ring numb the wounds of wrong 

Unhealed in brain and breast; 
With music like a slumber-song 

Lull tearful eyes to rest. — 
Ring ! Independence Bell ! 

Ring on till worlds to be 
Shall listen to the tale you tell 

Of Love and Liberty! 



326 What Title? 

T 1 fHAT title best bents the man 
* * We hold our first American? 
Or Statesman ; Soldier ; Hero ; Chief, 
Whose Country is his first belief ; 
Or sanest, safest Leader; or 
True Patriot; or Orator, 
Heard still at Inspiration's height, 
Because he speaks for truth and right; 
Or shall his people be content 
With Our Republic's President, 
Or trust his ringing worth to live 
Tn song as Chief Executive? 
Nay — his the simplest name — though set 
Upon him like a coronet, — 
God names our first American 
The highest, noblest name -The Man. 
421 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

J2/ To Edmund Clarence Stedman 
The Authors' Club Reception, New York 
December 6, 1900 

T T is a various tribute you command, 

■*■ O Poet-seer and World-sage in one! — 

The scholar greets you; and the student; and 

The stoic — and his visionary son : 
The painter, harvesting with quiet eye 

Your features ; and the sculptor, dreaming, too, 
A classic marble figure, lifted high 

Where Fame's immortal ones are waiting you. 

The man of letters, with his wistful face; 

The grizzled scientist ; the young A. B. ; 
The true historian, of force and grace; 

The orator, of pure simplicity; 
The journalist — the editor, likewise; 

The young war-correspondent ; and the old 
War-seasoned general, with sagging eyes, 

And nerve and hand of steel, and heart of gold. 

The serious humorist ; the blithe divine ; 

The lawyer, with that twinkling look he wears; 
The bleak-faced man in the dramatic line; 

The social lion — and the bulls and bears ; 
These — these, and more, O favored guest of all, 

Have known your benefactions, and are led 
To pay their worldly homage, and to call 

Down Heaven's blessings on your honored head. 

Ideal, to the utmost plea of art — 
As real, to labor's most exacting need, — 

Your dual services of soul and heart 

Enrich the world alike in dream and deed : 
422 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

For you have brought to us, from out the mine 
Delved but by genius in scholastic soil, 

The blended treasures of a wealth divine, — 
Your peerless gift of song — your life of toil. 



328 The Rest 

V. K. — NATURALIST 

T TE rests at last, as on the mother-breast 

-*■ ■*■ The playworn child at evening lies at rest, — 

For he, a buoyant child, in veriest truth, 

Has looked on life with eyes of changeless youth :- 

Has loved our green old earth here from the hour 

Of his first memory of bud and flower — 

Of morning's grassy lawns and dewy trees 

And orchard-blossoms, singing birds and bees : 



When all the world about him was a land 

Elysian, with the mother near at hand : 

With steadfast gaze of wonder and delight 

He marked the miracles of day and night : — 

Beheld the kingly sun, in dazzling reign 

By day; and, with her glittering, glimmering train 

Of stars, he saw the queenly moon possess 

Her throne in midmost midnight's mightiness. 

All living least of things ho ever knew 
Of mother Earth's he was a brother to: 
The lone rose by the brook — or, under, where 
The swaying water-lilies anchored there; 

433 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

His love dipped even to the glossy things 
That walked the waters and forgot their wings 
In sheer insanity of some delight 
Known but to that ecstatic parasite. 



It was enough, thus childishly to sense 
All works — since worthy of Omnipotence — 
As worshipful : Therefor, as any child, 
He knelt in tenderness of tears, or smiled 
His gratefulness, as to a playmate glad 
To share His pleasures with a poorer lad. 
And so he lived : And so he died?— Ah, no, 
We'll not believe that till he tells us so. 






329 The Doctor 

[April 29, 1907] 

"He took the suffering human race, 
He read each wound, each weakness clear; 

And struck his finger on the place, 

And said: 'Thou ailest here, and her el'" 






— Matthew Arnold. 



\ \ TE may idealize the chief of men — 

^ * Idealize the humblest citizen, — 

Idealize the ruler in his chair — 

The poor man, or the poorer millionaire ; 

Idealize the soldier — sailor — or 

The simple man of peace — at war with war;— 

The hero of the sword or fife-and-drum. . . . 

1 

Why not idealize the Doctor some? 
424 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The Doctor is, by principle, we know, 

Opposed to sentiment : he veils all show 

Of feeling,, and is proudest when he hides 

The sympathy which natively abides 

Within the stoic precincts of a soul 

Which owns strict duty as its first control, 

And so must guard the ill, lest worse may come. . . 

Why not idealize the Doctor some? 

He is the master of emotions — he 

Is likewise certain of that mastery, — 

Or dare he face contagion in its ire, 

Or scathing fever in its leaping fire? 

He needs must smile upon the ghastly face 

That yearns up toward him in that warded place 

Where even the Saint-like Sisters' lips grow dumb. 

Why not idealize the Doctor some? 

He wisely hides his heart from you and me — 
He hath grown tearless, of necessity, — 
He knows the sight is clearer, being blind ; 
He knows the cruel knife is very kind ; 
Ofttimes he must be pitiless, for thought 
Of the remembered wife or child he sought 
To save through kindness that was overcome. 
Why not idealize the Doctor some? 

Bear with him, trustful, in his darkest doubt 
Of how the mystery of death comes (Hit ; 
He knows — he knows, — aye, better yet than we, 
That out of Time must dawn Eternity; 



425 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

He knows his own compassion — what he would 
Give in relief of all ills, if he could. — 
We wait alike one Master: He will come. 
Do we idealize the Doctor some? 



JJO Ours 

Louisville, Kentucky, December 8, 1906 

Read at Banquet in Honor of Henry Watterson 
Upon His Departure for Spain 

T T ERE where of old was heard 
-*- -*■ The ringing, singing word 
That orator and bard 

Alike set free 
To soar, through heights profound, 
Our land's remotest bound, 
Till all is holy ground 

From sea to sea — 

Here still, with voice and pen, 
One cheers the hopes of men 
And gives us faith again — 

This gifted one 
We hold here as the guest 
Most honored — loved the best-^ 
Wisest and worthiest — 

Our Watterson. 

426 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

His spirit is the Seer's — 
For, though he sees and hears 
Through human doubts and fears, 

His heart is one 
With Earth's and the Divine — 
With his home-hearts — and mine — 
And the child's heart is thine, 

Our Watterson ! 

Give us to touch and praise 
His worth in subtlest ways, 
Lest even our fondest gaze 

He fain would shun — 
Laugh, though a mist appears — 
The glad wine salt with tears — 
Laugh, as we drain it — "Here's 

Our Watterson !" 



331 "Out of Reach'' 

A/'OU think them "out of reach," your dead? 

■*■ Nay, by my own dead, I deny 
Your "out of reach." — Be comforted: 
'Tis not so far to die. 



O by their dear remembered smiles 

And outheld hands and welcoming speech. 

They wait for us, thousands of miles 
This side of "out of reach." 

427 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
332 Life at the Lake 

HT^HE green below and the blue above! — 
-*- The waves caressing the shores they love : 
Sails in haven, and sails afar 
And faint as the waterlilies are 
In inlets haunted of willow wands, 
Listless lovers, and trailing hands 
With spray to gem them and tan to glove.— 
The green below and the blue above. 

The blue above and the green below ! 
Would that the world were always so ! — 
Always summer and warmth and light, 
With mirth and melody day and night ! 
Birds in the boughs of the beckoning trees, 
Chirr of locusts and whiff of breeze — 
World-old roses that bud and blow. — 
The blue above and the green below. 

The green below and the blue above ! 
Heigh! young hearts and the hopes thereof!— 
Kate in the hammock, and Tom sprawled on 
The sward — like a lover's picture, drawn 
By the lucky dog himself, with Kate 
To moon o'er his shoulder and meditate 
On a fat old purse or a lank young love. — 
The green below and the blue above. 

The blue above and the green below! 
Shadow and sunshine to and fro. — 
Season for dreams — whate'er befall 
Hero, heroine, hearts and all ! 
428 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Wave or wildwood — the blithe bird sings, 
And the leaf-hid locust whets his wings — 
Just as a thousand years ago — 
The blue above and the green below. 



H 1 



333 Our Little Girl 

' ER heart knew naught of sorrow, 
Nor the vaguest taint of sin — 
'Twas an ever-blooming blossom 

Of the purity within : 
And her hands knew only touches 

Of the mother's gentle care, 
And the kisses and caresses 
Through the interludes of prayer. 

Her baby-feet had journeyed 

Such a little distance here, 
They could have found no briars 

In the path to interfere; 
The little cross she carried 

Could not weary her, we know, 
For it lay as lightly on her 

As a shadow on the snow. 

And yet the way before us — 

O how empty now and drear ! — 
How ev'n the dews of roses 

Seem as dripping-tears for her ! 
And the songbirds all seem crying, 

As the winds cry and the rain, 
All sobbingly, — "We want — we want 

Our little girl again !" 
429 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



w: 



334 A Parting Guest 

r HAT delightful hosts are they— 
Life and Love! 
Lingeringly I turn away, 

This late hour, yet glad enough 
They have not withheld from me 

Their high hospitality. 
So, with face lit with delight 
And all gratitude, I stay 
Yet to press their hands and say, 
"Thanks. — So fine a time ! Good night." 



335 Laughing Song 

O ING us something full of laughter; 

^ Tune your harp, and twang the strings 

Till your glad voice, chirping after, 

Mates the song the robin sings : 
Loose your lips and let them flutter 

Like the wings of wanton birds, — 
Though they naught but laughter utter, 

Laugh, and we'll not miss the words. 

Sing in ringing tones that mingle 

In a melody that flings 
Joyous echoes in a jingle 

Sweeter than the minstrel sings : 
Sing of Winter, Spring or Summer, 

Clang of war, or low of herds ; 
Trill of cricket, roll of drummer — 

Laugh, and we'll not miss the words. 
430 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Like the lisping laughter glancing 

From the meadow brooks and springs, 
Or the river's ripples dancing 

To the tune the current sings — 
Sing of Now, and the Hereafter; 

Let your glad song, like the birds', 
Overflow with limpid laughter — 

Laugh, and we'll not miss the words. 



336 A Good Man 



A GOOD man never dies — 
**■*• In worthy deed and prayer 
And helpful hands, and honest eyes, 

If smiles or tears be there: 
Who lives for you and me — 

Lives for the world he tries 
To help — he lives eternally. 

A good man never dies. 

11 

Who lives to bravely take 

His share of toil and stress, 
And, for his weaker fellows' sake, 

Makes every burden less, — 
He may, at last, seem worn — 

Lie fallen — hands and eyes 
Folded — yet, though we mourn and mourn, 

A good man never dies. 
431 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

JJ7 The Children of the Childless 

r I ^HE Children of the Childless! — Yours — and mine.- 

-** Yea, though we sit here in the pitying gaze 
Of fathers and mothers whose fond fingers twine 
Their children's locks of living gold, and praise 
With warm, caressing palms, the head of brown, 
Or crown 

Of opulent auburn, with its amber floss 
In all its splendor loosed and jostled down 
Across 

The mother-lap of prayer. — Yea, even when 
These sweet petitioners are kissed, and then 
Are kissed and kissed again — 

The pursed mouths lifted with the worldlier prayer 
That bed and oblivion spare 
Them yet a little while 
Beside their envied elders by the glow 
Of the glad firelight; or wresting, as they go, 
Some promise for the morrow, to beguile 
Their long exile 

Within the wild waste lands of dream and sleep. 
Nay, nay, not even these most stably real 
Of children are more loved than our ideal — 
More tangible to the soul's touch and sight 
Than these — our children by Divine birthright. . . . 
These — these of ours, who soothe us, when we weep, 
With tenderest ministries, 
Or, flashing into smiling ecstasies, 
Come dashing through our tears — aye, laughing leap 
Into our empty arms, in Fate's despite, 
And nestle to our hearts. O Heaven's delight ! — 
The children of the childless — even these I 
432 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

338 My Foe 

1\/T Y Foe? You name yourself, then, — I refuse 
-*•*-*- A term so dark to designate you by. 

To me you are most kind and true ; and I 
Am grateful as the dust is for the dews 
That brim the dusk, and falter, drip and ooze 

From the dear darkness of the summer sky. 

Vex not yourself for lack of moan or cry 
Of mine. Not any harm, nor ache nor bruise 
Could reach my soul through any stroke you fain 

Might launch upon me, — it were as the lance 

Even of the lightning did it leap to rend 
A ray of sunshine — 'twould recoil again. 

So, blessing you, with pitying countenance, 

I wave a hand to you, my helpless friend. 



339 The Old Days 

r I ^HE old days — the far days — 

*- The overdear and fair ! — 
The old days — the lost days — 

How lovely they were ! 
The old days of Morning, 

With the dew-drench on the flowers 
And apple-buds and blossoms 

Of those old days of ours. 

Then was the real gold 

Spendthrift Summer Hung; 

Then was the real song 
Bird or Poet sung! 

433 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

There was never censure then, — 

Only honest praise — 
And all things were worthy of it 

In the old days. 

There bide the true friends— 

The first and the best; 
There clings the green grass 

Close where they rest : 
Would they were here? No; — 

Would we were there ! . . . 
The old days — the lost days — 

How lovely they were! 



340 Lincoln — The Boy 

/^\ SIMPLE as the rhymes that tell 
^-^ The simplest tales of youth, 
Or simple as a miracle 

Beside the simplest truth — 
So simple seems the view we share 

With our Immortals, sheer 
From Glory looking down to where 

They were as children here. 

Or thus we know, nor doubt it not, 

The boy he must have been 
Whose budding heart bloomed with the thought 

All men are kith and kin — 



434 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With love-light in his eyes and shade 
Of prescient tears : — Because 

Only of such a boy were made 
The loving man he was. 



You May Not Remember 

In the deep grave's charmed chamber, 
Lying tranced in breathless slumber, 
You may haply not remember. 

"\T 0\J may not remember whether 

-*■ It was Spring or Summer weather; 
But / know— we two together 

At the dim end of the day — 
How the fireflies in the twilight 
Drifted by like flakes of starlight, 
Till o'er floods of flashing moonlight 
They were wave-like swept away. 

You may not remember any 

Word of mine of all the many 

Poured out for you there, though then a 

Soul inspired spake my love ; — 
But / knew — and still review it, 
All my passion, as with awe it 
Welled in speech as from a poet 
Gifted of the gods above. 

435 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Sleeping here, this hour I grieve in, 
You may not remember even 
Any kiss I still believe in, 

Or caress of ecstasy, — 
May not even dream — O can't you? — 
That I kneel here — weep here — want you- 
Feign me in your grave, to haunt you, 
Since you come not back to me ! 

Vain ! ah, vain is all my yearning 
As the West's last embers burning 
Into ashes, slowly turning 

Ever to a denser gray! — 
While the fireflies in the twilight 
Drift about like flakes of starlight, 
Till o'er wastes of wannest moonlight 
They are wave-like swept away. 



436 



POEMS HERE AT HOME 



342 The Used-To-Be 

13 EYOND the purple, hazy trees 
**-* Of summer's utmost boundaries; 
Beyond the sands — beyond the seas — 
Beyond the range of eyes like these, 
And only in the reach of the 
Enraptured gaze of Memory, 
There lies a land, long lost to me, — 
The land of Used-to-be ! 

A land enchanted — such as swung 
In golden seas when sirens clung 
Along their dripping brinks, and sung 
To Jason in that mystic tongue 
That dazed men with its melody — 
O such a land, with such a sea 
Kissing its shores eternally, 
Is the fair Used-to-be. 

A land where music ever girds 
The air with belts of singing-birds, 
And sows all sounds with such sweet words, 
That even in the low of herds 
A meaning lives so sweet to me, 
Lost laughter ripples limpidly 
From lips brimmed over with the glee 
Of rare old Used-to-be. 
437 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Lost laughter, and the whistled tunes 
Of boyhood's mouth of crescent runes, 
That rounded, through long afternoons, 
To serenading plenilunes — 
When starlight fell so mistily 
That, peering up from bended knee, 
I dreamed 'twas bridal drapery 
Snowed over Used-to-be. 

O land of love and dreamy thoughts, 
And shining fields, and shady spots 
Of coolest, greenest grassy plots, 
Embossed with wild forget-me-nots ! — 
And all ye blooms that longingly 
Lift your fair faces up to me 
Out of the past, I kiss in ye 
The lips of Used-to-be. 



243 Song of the Bullet 

T T whizzed and whistled along the blurred 
-*- And red-blent ranks ; and it nicked the star 
Of an epaulet, as it snarled the word — 

War! 

On it sped — and the lifted wrist 

Of the ensign-bearer stung, and straight 
Dropped at his side as the word was hissed — 

Hate! 



438 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

On went the missile — smoothed the blue 
Of a jaunty cap and the curls thereof, 
Cooing, soft as a dove might do — 

Love ! 

Sang ! — sang on ! — sang hate — sang war — 

Sang love, in sooth, till it needs must cease, 
Hushed in the heart it was questing for. — 

Peace \ 



344 Dead, My Lords 

T^VEAD, my lords and gentlemen! — 
*^ Stilled the tongue, and stayed the pen ; 
Cheek unflushed and eye unlit — 
Done with life, and glad of it. 

Curb your praises now as then: 
Dead, my lords and gentlemen. — 
What he wrought found its reward 
In the tolerance of the Lord. 

Ye who fain had barred his path, 
Dread ye now this look he hath? — 
Dead, my lords and gentlemen — 
Dare ye not smile back again? 

Low he lies, yet high and great 
Looms he, lying thus in state. — 
How exalted o'er ye when 
Dead, my lords and gentlemen! 
496 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

345 Bereaved 

T ET me come in where you sit weeping, — ay, 
•^-^ Let me, who have not any child to die, 
Weep with you for the little one whose love 
I have known nothing of. 

The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed 
Their pressure round your neck ; the hands you used 
To kiss. — Such arms — such hands I never knew. 
May I not weep with you? 

Fain would I be of service — say some thing, 
Between the tears, that would be comforting, — 
But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I, 
Who have no child to die. 



346 A Vision of Summer 

L WAS a marvelous vision of Summer.- 
That morning the dawn was late, 
And came, like a long dream-ridden guest, 
Through the gold of the Eastern gate. 



JL 



Languid it came, and halting, 

As one that yawned, half roused, 
With lifted arms and indolent lids 

And eyes that drowsed and drowsed. 

A glimmering haze hung over 

The face of the smiling air; 
And the green of the trees and the blue of the leas 

And the skies gleamed everywhere. 
440 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the dewdrops' dazzling jewels, 

In garlands and diadems, 
Lightened and twinkled and glanced and shot 

As the glints of a thousand gems : 

Emeralds of dew on the grasses; 

The rose with rubies set; 
On the lily, diamonds ; and amethysts 

Pale on the violet. 

And there were the pinks of the fuchsias 

And the peony's crimson hue, 
The lavender of the hollyhocks, 

And the morning-glory's blue: 

The purple of the pansy bloom, 

And the passionate flush of the face 

Of the velvet-rose ; and the thick perfume 
Of the locust every place. 

The air and the sun and the shadows 
Were wedded and made as one; 

And the winds ran over the meadows 
As little children run : 

And the winds poured over the meadows 

And along the willowy way 
The river ran, with its ripples shod 

With the sunshine of the day: 

O the winds flowed over the meadows 
In a tide of eddies and calms, 
441 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the bared brow felt the touch of it 
As a sweetheart's tender palms. 

And the lark went palpitating 

Up through the glorious skies, 
His song spilled down from the blue profound 

As a song from Paradise. 

And here was the loitering current — 

Stayed by a drift of sedge 
And sodden logs — scummed thick with the gold 

Of the pollen from edge to edge. 

The cat-bird piped in the hazel, 

And the harsh kingfisher screamed ; 

And the crane, in amber and oozy swirls, 
Dozed in the reeds and dreamed. 

And in through the tumbled driftage 

And the tangled roots below, 
The waters warbled and gurgled and lisped 

Like the lips of long ago. 

And the senses caught, through the music, 

Twinkles of dabbling feet, 
And glimpses of faces in coverts green, 

And voices faint and sweet. 

And back from the lands enchanted, 
Where my earliest mirth was born, 

The trill of a laugh was blown to me 
Like the blare of an elfin horn. 
442 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Again I romped through the clover; 

And again I lay supine 
On grassy swards, where the skies, like eyes, 

Looked lovingly back in mine. 

And over my vision floated 

Misty illusive things — 
Trailing strands of the gossamer 

On heavenward wanderings : 

Figures that veered and wavered, 

Luring the sight, and then 
Glancing away into nothingness, 

And blinked into shape again. 

From out far depths of the forest, 

Ineffably sad and lorn, 
Like the yearning cry of a long-lost love, 

The moan of the dove was borne. 

And through lush glooms of the thicket 
The flash of the redbird's wings 

On branches of star-white blooms that shook 
And thrilled with its twitterings. 

Through mossy and viny vistas, 
Soaked ever with deepest shade, 

Dimly the dull owl stared and stared 
From his bosky ambuscade. 

And Up through iht rifled tree-tops 
That signaled the wayward breeze, 
443 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I saw the hulk of the hawk becalmed 
Far out on the azure seas. 

Then sudden an awe fell on me, 

As the hush of the golden day 
Rounded to noon, as a May to June 

That a lover has dreamed away. 

And I heard, in the breathless silence, 
And the full, glad light of the sun, 

The tinkle and drip of a timorous shower — 
Ceasing as it begun. 

And my thoughts, like the leaves and grasses, 

In a rapture of joy and pain, 
Seemed fondled and petted and beat upon 

With a tremulous patter of rain. 



347 From a Balloon 

T_T O ! we are loose. Hear how they shout, 
•*■ ■■■ And how their clamor dwindles out 
Beneath us to the merest hum 
Of earthly acclamation. Come, 
Lean with me here and look below — 
Why, bless you, man ! don't tremble so ! 
There is no need of fear up here — 
Not higher than the buzzard swings 
About upon the atmosphere, 
With drowsy eyes and open wings ! 
444 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

There, steady, now, and feast your eyes ;- 
See, we are tranced — we do not rise ; 
It is the earth that sinks from us : 
But when I first beheld it thus, 
And felt the breezes downward flow, 
And heard all noises fail and die, 
Until but silence and the sky 
Above, around me, and below, — 
Why, like you now, I swooned almost, 
With mingled awe and fear and glee — 
As giddy as an hour-old ghost 
That stares into eternity. 



348 Dead Selves 

T T OW many of my selves are dead? 
■*■ -*- The ghosts of many haunt me : Lo, 
The baby in the tiny bed 
With rockers on, is blanketed 
And sleeping in the long ago ; 
And so I ask, with shaking head, 
How many of my selves are dead? 

A little face with drowsy eyes 
And lisping lips comes mistily 
From out the faded past, and trios 
The prayers a mother breathed with sighs 
Of anxious care in teaching me; 
But face and form and prayers have tied — 
How many of my selves are dead ? 
445 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The little naked feet that slipped 

In truant paths, and led the way 

Through dead'ning pasture-lands, and tripped 

O'er tangled poison-vines, and dipped 

In streams forbidden — where are they? 

In vain I listen for their tread — 

How many of my selves are dead? 

The awkward boy the teacher caught 

Inditing letters filled with love, 

Who was compelled, for all he fought, 

To read aloud each tender thought 

Of "Sugar Lump" and "Turtle Dove." . • 

I wonder where he hides his head — 

How many of my selves are dead? 

The earnest features of a youth 
With manly fringe on lip and chin, 
With eager tongue to tell the truth, 
To offer love and life, forsooth, 
So brave was he to woo and win ; 
A prouder man was never wed — i 
How many of my selves are dead? 

The great, strong hands so all-inclined 

To welcome toil, or smooth the care 

From mother-brows, or quick to find 

A leisure-scrap of any kind, 

To toss the baby in the air, 

Or clap at babbling things it said — 

How many of my selves are dead? 

446 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The pact of brawn and scheming brain- 
Conspiring in the plots of wealth, 
Still delving, till the lengthened chain, 
Unwindlassed in the mines of gain, 
Recoils with dregs of ruined health 
And pain and poverty instead — 
How many of my selves are dead? 

The faltering step, the faded hair — 
Head, heart and soul, all echoing 
With maundering fancies that declare 
That life and love were never there, 
Nor ever joy in anything, 
Nor wounded heart that ever bled — 
How many of my selves are dead? 

So many of my selves are dead, 
That, bending here above the brink 
Of my last grave, with dizzy head, 
I find my spirit comforted, 
For all the idle things I think: 
It can but be a peaceful bed, 
Since all my other selves are dead. 



349 Someday 

C OMEDAY:— So many tearful eyes 

Are watching for thy dawning light; 
So many faces toward the skies 
Are weary of the night ! 
447 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

So many failing prayers that reel 
And stagger upward through the storm, 

And yearning hands that reach and feel 
No pressure true and warm. 

So many hearts whose crimson wine 

Is wasted to a purple stain 
And blurred and streaked with drops of brine 

Upon the lips of Pain. 

Oh, come to them! — these weary ones ! 

Or if thou still must bide a while, 
Make stronger yet the hope that runs 

Before thy coming smile : 

And haste and find them where they wait — 
Let summer winds blow down that way, 

And all they long for, soon or late, 
Bring round to them, Someday. 



350 One Afternoon 



B 



ELOW, cool grasses : over us 
The maples waver tremulous. 



A slender overture above, 
Low breathing as a sigh of love 

At first, then gradually strong 
And stronger : 'tis the locust's song, 

Swoln midway to a paean of glee, 
And lost in silence dwindlingly. 
448 






THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Not utter silence; nay, for hid 
In ghosts of it, the katydid 

Chirrs a diluted echo of 

The loveless song he makes us love. 

The low boughs are drugged heavily 
With shade ; the poem you read to me 

Is not more gracious than the trill 
Of birds that twitter as they will. 

Half consciously, with upturned eyes, 
I hear your voice — I see the skies, 

Where, o'er bright rifts, the swallows glance 
Like glad thoughts o'er a countenance; 

And voices near and far are blent 
Like sweet chords of some instrument 

Awakened by the trembling touch 
Of hands that love it overmuch. 

Dear heart, let be the book awhile ! 
I want your face — I want your smile ! 

Tell me how gladder now arc they 
Who look on us from heaven lo-day. 

449 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

351 Old Chums 

" T F I die first," my old chum paused to say, 
•*■ "Mind ! not a whimper of regret ;— instead, 
Laugh and be glad, as I shall. — Being dead, 
I shall not lodge so very far away 
But that our mirth shall mingle.— So, the day 
The word comes, joy with me." 'Til try," I said, 
Though, even speaking, sighed and shook my head 
And turned, with misted eyes. His roundelay 
Rang gaily on the stair ; and then the door 
Opened and — closed. . . . Yet something of the clear, 
Hale hope, and force of wholesome faith he had, 
Abided with me — strengthened more and more. — 
Then — then they brought his broken body here : 
And I laughed — whisperingly — and we were glad. 



352 What a Dead Man Said 

T T EAR what a dead man said to me. 
-*- -*• His lips moved not, and the eyelids lay 
Shut as the leaves of a white rose may 
Ere the wan bud blooms out perfectly; 
And the lifeless hands they were stiffly crossed 
As they always cross them over the breast 
When the soul goes nude and the corpse is dressed; 
And over the form, in its long sleep lost, 
From forehead down to the pointed feet 
That peaked the foot of the winding-sheet, 
Pallid patience and perfect rest. — 
450 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

It was the voice of a dream, may be, 
But it seemed that the dead man said to me : 
"I, indeed, am the man that died 
Yesternight — and you weep for this ; 
But, lo, I am with you, side by side, 
As we have walked when the summer sun 
Made the smiles of our faces one 
And touched our lips with the same warm kiss. 
Do not doubt that I tell you true — 
I am the man you once called friend, 
And caught my hand when I came to you, 
And loosed it only because the end 
Of the path I walked of a sudden stopped — 
And a dead man's hand must needs be dropped- 
And I — though it's strange to think so now — 
/ have wept, as you weep for me, 
And pressed hot palms to my aching brow 
And moaned through the long night ceaselessly. 
Yet have I lived to forget my pain, 
As you will live to be glad again — 
Though never so glad as this hour am I, 
Tasting a rapture of delight 
Vast as the heavens are infinite, 
And dear as the hour I came to die. 
Living and loving, I dreamed my cup 
Brimmed sometimes, and with marvelings 
I have lifted and lipped it up 
And drunk to the dregs of all sweet things. 
Living, 'twas but a dream of bliss — 
Now I realize all it is ; 
And now my only shadow of grief 
Ts that T may not give relief 
451 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Unto those living and dreaming on, 
And woo them graveward, as I have gone, 
And show death's loveliness, — for they 
Shudder and shrink as they walk this way, 
Never dreaming that all they dread 
Is their purest delight when dead." 

Thus it was, or it seemed to be, 

That the voice of the dead man spoke to me. 



353 The Poet of the Future 

/^V THE Poet of the Future! He will come to us as 
^-^ comes 

The beauty of the bugle's voice above the roar of drums — 
The beauty of the bugle's voice above the roar and din 
Of battle-drums that pulse the time the victor marches in. 
His hands will hold no harp, in sooth; his lifted brow will 

beat- 
No coronet of laurel — nay, nor symbol anywhere, 
Save that his palms are brothers to the toiler's at the plow, 
His face to heaven, and the dew of duty on his brow. 

He will sing across the meadow, — and the woman at the 

well 
Will stay the dripping bucket, with a smile ineffable ; 
And the children in the orchard will gaze wistfully the way 
The happy song comes to them, with the fragrance of the 

hay; 



452 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The barn will neigh in answer, and the pasture-lands behind 
Will chime with bells, and send responsive lowings down 

the wind; 
And all the echoes of the wood will jubilantly call 
In sweetest mimicry of that one sweetest voice of all. 

! 
O the Poet of the Future ! He will come as man to man, 
With the honest arm of labor, and the honest face of tan, 
The honest heart of lowliness, the honest soul of love 
For human-kind and nature-kind about him and above. 
His hands will hold no harp, in sooth; his lifted brow will 

bear 
No coronet of laurel — nay, nor symbol anywhere, 
Save that his palms are brothers to the toiler's at the plow, 
His face to heaven, and the dew of duty on his brow. 



354 A Sea-Song From the Shore 



H 



"AIL! Ho! 
Sail ! Ho ! 
Ahoy ! Ahoy ! Ahoy ! 
Who calls to me, 
So far at sea? 
Only a little boy! 

Sail! Ho! 

Hail! Ho! 
The sailor foe sails the sea : 

I wish he would capture 

A little sea-horse 
And send him home to nu\ 
453 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I wish, as he sails 

Through the tropical gales, 
He would catch me a sea-bird, too, 

With its silver wings 

And the song it sings, 
And its breast of down and dew ! 

I wish he would catch me a 

Little mermaid, 
Some island where he lands, 

With her dripping curls, 

And her crown of pearls, 
And the looking-glass in her hands ! 

Hail! Ho! 

Sail ! Ho ! 
Sail far o'er the fabulous main ! 

And if I were a sailor 

I'd sail with you, 
Though I never sailed back again. 



355 A Song of the Cruise 

f~\ THE sun and the rain, and the rain and the sun ! 
^^ There'll be sunshine again when the tempest is done; 
And the storm will beat back when the shining is past — 
But in some happy haven we'll anchor at last. 

Then murmur no more, 

In lull or in roar, 
But smile and be brave till the voyage is o'er. 

4&4 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O the rain and the sun, and the sun and the rain ! 
When the tempest is done, then the sunshine again ; 
And in rapture we'll ride through the stormiest gales, 
For God's hand |s on the helm and His breath in the sails. 

Then murmur no more, 

In lull or in roar, 
But smile and be brave till the voyage is o'er. 



35<5 In Swimming- Tim e 

/^LOUDS above, as white as wool, 
^-^ Drifting over skies as blue 
As the eyes of beautiful 

Children when they smile at you ; 
Groves of maple, elm, and beech, 

With the sunshine sifted through 
Branches, mingling each with each, 

Dim with shade and bright with dew ; 
Stripling trees, and poplars hoar, 
Hickory and sycamore, 
And the drowsy dogwood bowed 
Where the ripples laugh aloud, 
And the crooning creek is stirred 

To a gaiety that now 
Mates the warble of the bird 

Teetering on the hazel-bough. 
Grasses long and fine and fair 
As your school boy sweetheart's hair, 
Backward roached and twirled and twined 
By the lingers of the wind. 
455 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Vines and mosses, interlinked 

Down dark aisles and deep ravines, 
Where the stream runs, willow-brinked, 

Round a bend where some one leans 
Faint and vague and indistinct 

As the like reflected thing 

In the current shimmering. 
Childish voices farther on, 
Where the truant stream has gone, 
Vex the echoes of the wood 
Till no word is understood, 
Save that one is well aware 
Happiness is hiding there. 
There, in leafy coverts, nude 

Little bodies poise and leap, 
Spattering the solitude 
And the silence everywhere — 

Mimic monsters of the deep ! 
Wallowing in sandy shoals — 

Plunging headlong out of sight ; 

And, with spurtings of delight, 
Clutching hands, and slippery soles, 

Climbing up the treacherous steep 
Over which the spring-board spurns 
Each again as he returns. 

Ah ! the glorious carnival ! 

Purple lips and chattering teeth — 
Eyes that burn — but, in beneath, 

Every care beyond recall, 
Every task forgotten quite — 
And again, in dreams at night, 

Dropping, drifting through it all ! 
456 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

J5/ "The Little Man in the Tin-shop" 

\\T HEN I was a little boy, long ago, 

* * And spoke of the theatre as the "show," 
The first one that I went to see, 
Mother's brother it was took me — 
(My uncle, of course, though he seemed to be 
Only a boy — I loved him so !) 
And ah, how pleasant he made it all ! 
And the things he knew that / should know ! — 
The stage, the "drop," and the frescoed wall ; 
The sudden flash of the lights; and oh, 
The orchestra, with its melody, 
And the lilt and jingle and jubilee 

Of "The Little Man in the Tin-shop!" 

For Uncle showed me the "Leader" there, 

With his pale, bleak forehead and long, black hair ; 

Showed me the "Second," and "'Cello," and "Bass," 

And the "B-Flat," pouting and puffing his face 

At the little end of the horn he blew 

Silvery bubbles of music through; 

And he coined me names of them, each in turn, 

Some comical name that I laughed to learn, 

Clean on down to the last and best, — 

The lively little man, never at rest, 

Who hides away at the end of the string, 

And tinkers and plays on everything, — 

That's "The Little Man in the Tin-shop !" 

Raking a drum like a rattle of hail, 
Clinking a cymbal or castanct ; 
457 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Chirping a twitter or sending a wail 
Through a piccolo that thrills me yet; 
Reeling ripples of riotous bells, 
And tipsy tinkles of triangles — 
Wrangled and tangled in skeins of sound 
Till it seemed that my very soul spun round, 
As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my 
Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye 
And said, with the courtliest wave of his hand, 
"Why, that little master of all the band 
Is The Little Man in the Tin-shop ! 

"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful, 
And Paganini, and Ole Bull, 
Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn, 
And fair Parepa, whose matchless tone 
Karl, her master, with magic bow. 
Blent with the angels', and held her so 
Tranced till the rapturous Infinite — 
And I've heard arias, faint and low, 
From many an operatic light 
Glimmering on my swimming sight 
Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last, 
I still sit, holding my roses fast 

For The Little Man in the Tin-shop." 

Oho! my Little Man, joy to you — 
And yours — and theirs — your lifetime through ! 
Though I've heard melodies, boy and man, 
Since first the "show" of my life began, 

458 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Never yet have I listened to 
Sadder, madder, or gladder glees 
Than your unharmonied harmonies ; 
For yours is the music that appeals 
To all the fervor the boy's heart feels — 
All his glories, his wildest cheers, 
His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears; 
And so, with his first bouquet, he kneels 
To "The Little Man in the Tin-shop." 



358 Little Marjorie 

"\A/ rHERE is little Mar i° rie? " 

* * There's the robin in the tree, 
With his gallant call once more 
From the boughs above the door ! 
There's the bluebird's note, and there 
Are Spring-voices everywhere 
Calling, calling ceaselessly — 
"Where is little Marjorie?" 

And her old playmate, the rain, 

Calling at the window-pane 

In soft syllables that win 

Not her answer from within — 

"Where is little Marjorie?"— 

Or is it the rain, ah me ! 

Or wild gusts of tears that were 

Calling us — not calling her! 

A9) 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

" Where is little Marjorie?" 
Oh, in high security 
She is hidden from the reach 
Of all voices that beseech : 
She is where no troubled word, 
Sob or sigh is ever heard, 
Since God whispered tenderly — 
"Where is little Marjorie?" 



359 To a Skull 

r I A URN your face this way; 

-** I'm not weary of it — 
Every hour of every day 

More and more I love it — 
Grinning in that jolly guise 
Of bare bones and empty eyes ! 

Was this hollow dome, 
Where I tap my ringer, 

Once the spirit's narrow home- 
Where you loved to linger, 

Hiding, as to-day are we, 

From the selfsame destiny? 

O'er and o'er again 
Have I put the query — 

Was existence so in vain 
That you look so cheery? — 

Death of such a benefit 

That you smile, possessing it? 
460 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Did your throbbing brow 

Tire of all the flutter 
Of such fancyings as now 

You, at last, may utter 
In that grin so grimly bland 
Only death can understand? 

Has the shallow glee 
Of old dreams of pleasure 

Left you ever wholly free 
To float out, at leisure, 

O'er the shoreless, trackless trance 

Of unsounded circumstance? 

Only this I read 

In your changeless features, — 
You, at least, have gained a meed 

Held from living creatures : 
You have naught to ask. — Beside, 
You do grin so satisfied ! 



360 The All-Kind Mother 

T O, whatever is at hand 
-*— * Is full meet for the demand: 
Nature ofltimes giveth best 
When she seemeth chariest. 
She hath shapen shower and sun 
To the need of every one — 
Summer bland and winter drear. 
Dimpled pool and frozen mere. 
461 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

All thou lackest she hath still 
Near thy finding and thy fill. 
Yield her fullest faith, and she 
Will endow thee royally. 

Loveless weed and lily fair 

She attendeth, here and there — 

Kindly to the weed as to 

The lorn lily teared with dew. 

Each to her hath use as dear 

As the other ; an thou clear 

Thy cloyed senses thou may'st see 

Haply all the mystery. 

Thou shalt see the lily get 

Its divinest blossom ; yet 

Shall the weed's tip bloom no less 

With the song-bird's gleefulness. 

Thou art poor, or thou art rich — 
Never lightest matter which ; 
All the glad gold of the noon, 
All the silver of the moon, 
She doth lavish on thee, while 
Thou withholdest any smile 
Of thy gratitude to her, 
Baser used than usurer. 
Shame be on thee an thou seek 
Not her pardon, with hot cheek, 
And bowed head, and brimming eyes, 
At her merciful "Arise." 



462 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Your Violin 

yOUR violin ! Ah me ! 

■*■ 'Twas fashioned o'er the sea, 
In storied Italy — 

What matter where? 
It is its voice that sways 
And thrills me as it plays 
The airs of other days — 

The days that were ! 

Then let your magic bow 
Glide lightly to and fro. — 
I close my eyes, and so, 

In vast content, 
I kiss my hand to you, 
And to the tunes we knew 
Of old, as well as to 

Your instrument ! 

Poured out of some dim dream 
Of lulling sounds that seem 
Like ripples of a stream 

Twanged lightly by 
The slender, tender hands 
Of weeping-willow wands 
That droop where gleaming sands 

And pebbles lie. . . . 

A melody that swoons 
Tn all the truant tunes 
Long listless afternoons 
Lure from the breeze, 
4$3 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

When woodland boughs are stirred, 
And moaning doves are heard, 
And laughter afterward 
Beneath the trees. 

Through all the chorusing, 
I hear on leaves of Spring 
The drip and pattering 

Of April skies, 
With echoes faint and sweet 
As baby-angel feet 
Might wake along a street 

Of Paradise. 



362 The Dead Wife 

A LWAYS I see her in a saintly guise 
*** Of lilied raiment, white as her own brow 
When first I kissed the tear-drops to the eyes 
That smile forever now. 



Those gentle eyes ! They seem the same to me, 

As, looking through the warm dews of mine own, 
I see them gazing downward patiently 
Where, lost and all alone 

In the great emptiness of night, I bow 

And sob aloud for one returning touch 
Of the dear hands that, Heaven having now, 
I need so much — so much! 
464 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
jdj Give Me the Baby 

/^.IVE me the baby to hold, my dear — 
^-* To hold and hug, and to love and kiss. 
Ah ! he will come to me, never a fear — 
Come to the nest of a breast like this, 
As warm for him as his face with cheer. 
Give me the baby to hold, my dear ! 

Trustfully yield him to my caress. 

"Bother," you say? What! a "bother" to me? — 
To fill up my soul with such happiness 

As the love of a baby that laughs to be 
Snuggled away where my heart can hear ! 
Give me the baby to hold, my dear ! 

Ah, but his hands are grimed, you say, 

And would soil my laces and clutch my hair. — 

Well, what would pleasure me more, I pray, 

Than the touch and tug of the wee hands there ? — 

The wee hands there, and the warm face here — 

Give me the baby to hold, my dear ! 

Give me the baby ! (Oh, won't you see? 

. . . Somewhere, out where the green of the lawn 
Is turning to gray, and the maple-tree 

Is weeping its leaves of gold upon 
A little mound, with a dead rose near. . . .) 
Give me the baby to hold, my dear ! 



46S 



THE BOOK OF JOYOUS 
CHILDREN 

364 The Little Lady 

f~\ THE Little Lady fe dainty 
^-^ As the picture in a book, 
And her hands are creamy-whiter 

Than the water-lilies look; 
Her laugh 's the undrown'd music 

Of the maddest meadow-brook. — 
Yet all in vain I praise The Little Lady! 

Her eyes are blue and dewy 
As the glimmering Summer-dawn, — 

Her face is like the eglantine 
Before the dew is gone; 

And were that honied mouth of hers 
A bee's to feast upon, 

He 'd be a bee bewildered, Little Lady ! 

Her brow makes light look sallow ; 

And the sunshine, I declare, 
Is but a yellow jealousy 

Awakened by her hair — 
For O, the dazzling glint of it 

Nor sight nor soul can bear, — 
So Love goes groping for The Little Lady. 
466 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And yet she 's neither Nymph nor Fay, 

Nor yet of Angelkind: — 
She 's but a racing school-girl, with 

Her hair blown out behind 
And tremblingly unbraided by 

The fingers of the Wind, 
As it wildly swoops upon The Little Lady. 



365 The Boy Patriot 

T WANT to be a Soldier !— 

-*■ A Soldier ! — 

A Soldier!— 
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand 
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder, 
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band; 
I want to hear, high overhead, The Old Flag flap her wings 
While all the Army, following, in chorus cheers and sings; 
I want to hear the tramp and jar 

Of patriots a million, 
As gayly dancing off to war 

As dancing a cotillion. 

/ want to be a Soldier! — 

A Soldier! — 

A Soldier!— 
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand 
Or a little carbine rijle, or a muslcel on my shoulder. 
Or just a snare drum, snar!in</ in the middle of the band. 



•K>7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I want to see the battle ! — 

The battle !— 

The battle !— 
I want to see the battle, and be in it to the end ; — 
I want to hear the cannon clear their throats and catch the 

prattle 
Of all the pretty compliments the enemy can send ! — 
And then I know my wits will go, — and where I should n't 

be- 
Well, there's the spot, in any fight, that you may search for 

me. 
So, when our foes have had their fill, 

Though I'm among the dying, 
To see The Old Flag flying still, 
I'll laugh to leave her flying ! 

/ want to be a Soldier! — 

A Soldier! — 

A Soldier! — 
I want to be a Soldier, with a sabre in my hand 
Or a little carbine rifle, or a musket on my shoulder, 
Or just a snare-drum, snarling in the middle of the band. 



366 No Boy Knows 

r I ^HERE are many things that boys may know — 

-■* Why this and that are thus and so,— 
Who made the world in the dark and lit 
The great sun up to lighten it : 



468 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Boys know new things every day — 
When they study, or when they play, — 
When they idle, or sow and reap — 
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. 

Boys who listen — or should, at least, — 

May know that the round old earth rolls East; — 

And know that the ice and the snow and the rain — 

Ever repeating their parts again — 

Are all just water the sunbeams first 

Sip from the earth in their endless thirst, 

And pour again till the low streams leap. — 

But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. 

A boy may know what a long, glad while 

It has been to him since the dawn's first smile, 

When forth he fared in the realm divine 

Of brook-laced woodland and spun-sunshine; — 

He may know each call of his truant mates, 

And the paths they went, — and the pasture-gates 

Of the 'cross-lots home through the dusk so deep- 

But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. 

I have followed me, o'er and o'er, 

From the flagrant drowse on the parlor-floor, 
To the pleading voice of the mother when 

1 even doubted I heard it then — 

To the sense of a kiss, and a moonlit room, 
And dewy odors of locust-bloom — 
A sweet white cot — and a cricket's cheep. — 
But no boy knows when he goes to sleep. 



469 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

367 A Masque of the Seasons 

Scene — A kitchen. — Group of Children, popping corn.- — The 
Fairy Queen of the Seasons discovered in the smoke of 
the corn-popper. — Waving her wand, and, with eerie, 
sharp, imperious ejaculations, addressing the bespelled 
auditors, who neither see nor hear her nor suspect her 
presence. 

QUEEN 

Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall, — 
Which do you like the best of all? 

LITTLE JASPER 

When I'm dressed warm as warm can be, 

And with boots, to go 

Through the deepest snow, 
Winter-time is the time for me! 

QUEEN 



Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall,- 
. do 



Which do you like the best of all? 



LITTLE MILDRED 

I like blossoms, and birds that sing; 
The grass and the dew, 
And the sunshine, too, — 

So, best of all I like the Spring. 
470 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

QUEEN 

Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall, — 
Which do you like the best of all? 

LITTLE MANDEVILLE 

O little friends, I most rejoice 

When I hear the drums 

As the Circus comes, — 
So Summer-time's my special choice. 

queen 

Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall, — 
Which do you like the best of all? 

LITTLE EDITH 

Apples of ruby, and pears of gold, 

And grapes of blue 

That the bee stings through. — 
Fall — it is all that my heart can hold ! 

QUEEN 

Soh ! my lovelings and pretty dears, 
You've each a favorite, it appears, — 
Summer and Winter and Spring and Kail. 
That's the reason I send them all! 

471 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

368 Some Songs After Master- 
Singers 

SONG 

[w. s.] 
"\ A 7* ITH a hey ! and a hi ! and a hey-ho rhyme ! 
* ^ O the shepherd lad 

He is ne'er so glad 
As when he pipes, in the blossom-time, 

So rare ! 
While Kate picks by, yet looks not there. 

So rare ! so rare ! 
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho! 
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow! 

With a hey! and a hi! and a hey-ho vow! 

Then he sips her face 

At the sweetest place — 
And ho ! how white is the hawthorn now ! — 

So rare! — 
And the daisied world rocks round them there. 

So rare ! so rare ! 
With a hey! and a hi! and a ho! 
The grasses curdle where the daisies blow! 

TO THE CHILD JULIA 
[R. H.] 

TITTLE Julia, since that we 
-*— * May not as our elders be, 
Let us blithely fill the days 
Of our youth with pleasant plays. 
472 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

First we '11 up at earliest dawn, 
While as yet the dew is on 
The sooth'd grasses and the pied 
Blossomings of morningtide ; 
Next, with rinsed cheeks that shine 
As the enamell'd eglantine, 
We will break our fast on bread 
With both cream and honey spread; 

Then, with many a challenge-call, 
We will romp from house and hall, 
Gypsying with the birds and bees 
Of the green-tress'd garden trees. 
In a bower of leaf and vine 
Thou shalt be a lady fine 
Held in duress by the great 
Giant I shall personate. 
Next, when many mimics more 
Like to these we have played o'er, 
We '11 betake us home-along 
Hand in hand at evensong. 



THE DOLLY S MOTHER 

[w. W.] 

A LITTLE maid, of summers four- 
*■ ** Did you compute her years, — 
And yet how infinitely more 
To nic her age appears : 

473 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

I mark the sweet child's serious air, 

At her unplayful play,— 
The tiny doll she mothers there 

And lulls to sleep away, 



Grows — 'neath the grave similitude — 

An infant real, to me, 
And she a saint of motherhood 

In hale maturity. 

So, pausing in my lonely round, 

And all unseen of her, 
I stand uncovered — her profound 

And abject worshipper. 



WIND OF THE SEA 
[A. T.] 

A^TlND of the Sea, come fill my sail — 
* * Lend me the breath of a freshening gale 
And bear my port-worn ship away ! 
For O the greed of the tedious town — 
The shutters up and the shutters down ! 
Wind of the Sea, sweep over the bay 
And bear me away ! — away ! 

Whither you bear me, Wind of the Sea, 
Matters never the least to me : 

Give me your fogs, with the sails adrip, 

474 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Or the weltering path thro' the starless night- 
On, somewhere, is a new daylight 
And the cheery glint of another ship 
As its colors dip and dip ! 

Wind of the Sea, sweep over the bay 
And bear me away ! — away ! 



BORN TO THE PURPLE 
[W. M.] 

TV T OST-LIKE it was this kingly lad 
-^^ Spake out of the pure joy he had 
In his child-heart of the wee maid 
Whose eerie beauty sudden laid 
A spell upon him, and his words 
Burst as a song of any bird's : — 

A peerless Princess thou shalt be, 
Through wit of love's rare sorcery : 
To crown the crown of thy gold hair 
Thou shall have rubies, bleeding there 
Their crimson splendor midst the marred 
Pulp of great pearls, and afterward 
Leaking in fainter ruddy stains 
Adown thy neck-and-armlet-chains 
Of turquoise, chrysoprase, and mad 
Light-frenzied diamonds, dartling glad 
Swift spirts of shine that interfuse 
As though with lucent crystal dews 
475 



• THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

That glance and glitter like split rays 

Of sunshine, born of burgeoning Mays 

When the first bee tilts down the lip 

Of the first blossom, and the drip 

Of blended dew and honey heaves 

Him blinded midst the underleaves. 

For raiment, Fays shall weave for thee — 

Out of the phosphor of the sea 

And the frayed floss of starlight, spun 

With counterwarp of the firm sun — 

A vesture of such filmy sheen 

As, through all ages, never queen 

Therewith strove truly to make less 

One fair line of her loveliness. 

Thus gowned and crowned with gems and gold, 

Thou shalt, through centuries untold, 

Rule, ever young and ever fair, 

As now thou rulest, smiling there. 



SUBTLETY 
[R.B.] 

\\ WHILST little Paul, convalescing was staying 
* " Close indoors, and his boisterous classmates paying 

Him visits, with fresh school-notes and surprises — 
With nettling pride they sprung the word "Athletic," 
With much advice and urgings sympathetic 

Anent "athletic exercises." Wise as 
Lad might look, quoth Paul: "I've pondered o'er that 
'Athletic/ but I mean to take, before that, 

Downstairic and outdooric exercises." 
476 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
369 The Treasure of the Wise Man 

/^ATHE night was dark and the night was late, 
^-^ And the robbers came to rob him; 
And they picked the locks of his palace-gate, 

The robbers that came to rob him — 
They picked the locks of his palace-gate, 
Seized his jewels and gems of state, 
His coffers of gold and his priceless plate, — 

The robbers that came to rob him. 

But loud laughed he in the morning red! — 
For of what had the robbers robbed him? — 

Ho ! hidden safe, as he slept in bed, 
When the robbers came to rob him, — 

They robbed him not of a golden shred 

Of the childish dreams in his wise old head — 
"And they're welcome to all things else," he said, 
When the robbers came to rob him. 



3/0 Evensong 

TAY away the story, — 

-^* Though the theme is sweet, 

There 's a lack of something yet, 

Leaves it incomplete : — 
There \s a nameless yearning — 

Strangely undefined — 
For a story sweeter still 

Than the written kind. 

477 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Therefore read no longer — 

I 've no heart to hear 
But just something you make up, 

my mother dear. — 
With your arms around me, 

Hold me, folded-eyed, — 
Only let your voice go on — 

1 '11 be satisfied. 



j/j A Song of Singing 

O ING ! gangling lad, along the brink 

*^ Of wild brook-ways of shoal and deep, 

Where killdees dip, and cattle drink, 

And glinting little minnows leap ! 
Sing! slimpsy lass who trips above 

And sets the foot-log quivering! 
Sing ! bittern, bumble-bee, and dove — 
Sing! Sing! Sing! 

, ■ 
Sing as you will, O singers all 

Who sing because you want to sing ! 
Sing! peacock on the orchard wall, 

Or tree-toad by the trickling spring ! 
Sing ! every bird on every bough — 

Sing! every living, loving thing — 
Sing any song, and anyhow, • 

But Sing! Sing! Sing! 



478 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
j/<? The Book of Joyous Children 

T) OUND and bordered in leaf-green, 
^-^ Edged with trellised buds and flowers 
And glad Summer-gold, with clean 

White and purple morning-glories 
Such as suit the songs and stories 
Of this book of ours, 
Unrevised in text or scene,— 

The Book of Joyous Children. 

Wild and breathless in their glee — 

Lawless rangers of all ways 
Winding through lush greenery 

Of Elysian vales — the viny, 
Bowery groves of shady, shiny 
Haunts of childish days. 
Spread and read again with me 

The Book of Joyous Children. 

What a whir of wings, and what 

Sudden drench of dews upon 
The young brows, wreathed, all unsought, 
With the apple-blossom garlands 
Of the poets of those far lands 
Whence all dreams are drawn 
Set herein and soiling not 

The Book of Joyous Children. 

In their blithe companionship 

Taste again, these pages through, 
The hot honey on your lip 

Of the sun-smit wild strawberry, 
Or the chill tart of the cherry; 
479 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Kneel, all glowing, to 
The cool spring, and with it sip 

The Book of Joyous Children. 

As their laughter needs no rule, 

So accept their language, pray. — 
Touch it not with any tool : 

Surely we may understand it, — 
As the heart has parsed or scanned it 
Is a worthy way, 
Though found not in any School 

The Book of Joyous Children. 

Be a truant— know no place 

Of prison under heaven's rim! 
Front the Father's smiling face — 

Smiling, that you smile the brighter 
For the heavy hearts made lighter, 
Since you smile with Him. 
Take — and thank Him for His grace — 
The Book of Joyous Children. 



480 



MISCELLANY 



373 God Bless Us Every One 

u r^OD bless us every one !" prayed Tiny Tim, 
^-^ Crippled, and dwarfed of body, yet so tall 
Of soul, we tiptoe earth to look on him, 
High towering over all. 

He loved the loveless world, nor dreamed indeed 

That it, at best, could give to him, the while, 
But pitying glances, when his only need 
Was but a cheery smile. 

And thus he prayed, "God bless us every one !" — 

Enfolding all the creeds within the span 
Of his child-heart ; and so, despising none, 
Was nearer saint than man. 

I like to fancy God, in Paradise, 

Lifting a finger o'er the rhythmic swing 
Of chiming harp and song, with eager eyes 
Turned earthward, listening — • 

The Anthem stilled — the Angels leaning there 

Above the goldCH walls — the morning sun 
Of Christmas bursting flower-like with the prayer, 
"God bless us every one!" 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
574 When She Comes Home 

\ li THEN she comes home again! A thousand ways 

* * I fashion, to myself, the tenderness 
Of my glad welcome : I shall tremble — yes ; 
And touch her, as when first in the old days 
I touched her girlish hand, nor dared upraise 
Mine eyes, such was my faint heart's sweet distress. 
Then silence : and the perfume of her dress : 
The room will sway a little, and a haze 
Cloy eyesight — soulsight, even — for a space; 
And tears — yes ; and the ache here in the throat, 
To know that I so ill deserve the place 
Her arms make for me ; and the sobbing note 
I stay with kisses, ere the tearful face 
Again is hidden in the old embrace. 



H 



5/5 The Romaunt of King Mordameer 

O ! did ye hear of Mordameer, 
The King of Slumberland ! 
A lotus-crown upon his brow — 

A poppy in his hand, 
And all the elves that people dreams 
To bow at his command. 

His throne is wrought of blackest night, 
Enriched with rare designs 

Wherein the blazing comet runs 

And writhes and wreaths and twines 

About a crescent angel-face 
That ever smiling shines. 
482 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The dais is of woven rays 
Of starlight fringed with shade, 

And jewelled o'er with gems of dew, 
And dyed and interlaid 

With every gleaming tint and hue 
Of which the flowers are made. 

And when the day has died away 

In darkness o'er the land, 
The King bends down his dusky face 

And takes the sleeper's hand, 
And lightly o'er his folded eyes 

He waves his magic wand. 

And lo ! within his princely home, 

Upon his downy bed, 
With soft and silken coverlets 

And curtains round him spread, 
The rich man rolls in troubled sleep, 

And moans in restless dread : 

His eyes are closed, yet Mordameer 

May see their stony stare 
As plainly fixed in agony 

As though the orbs were bare 
And glaring at the wizard throng 

That fills the empty air: — 

A thousand shapes, with phantom japes, 

Dance o'er the sleeper's sii'Jit, — 
Willi fingers bony like and lean, 

483 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And faces pinched and white, 
And withered cheeks, and sunken eyes 
With ever-ravening sight. 

And such the dreams that Mordameer 
Brings to the child of Pride, — 

The worn and wasted forms that he 
Hath stinted and denied — 

Of those who filled his coffers up 
And empty-handed died. 

And then again he waves his wand : 
And from his lair of straw 

The felon, with his fettered limbs, 
Starts up with fear and awe, 

And stares with starting eyes upon 
A vision of the law : 

A grim procession passes by, 
The while he glares in fear — 

With faces, from a wanton's smile 
Down to a demon's leer, — 

The woman marching at the front, 
The hangman at the rear. 

All ways are clear to Mordameer: 
The ocean knows his tread ; 

His feet are free on land or sea : — 
Above the sailor's head 

He hangs a dream of home, and bends 
Above his cottage-bed : 

484 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, nestled in the mother's arms, 

A child surpassing fair, 
In slumber lies, its tiny hands 

Entangled in her hair, 
And round its face a smile that moves 

Its lips as though in prayer. 

And lo ! the good king feasts its eyes 
With fruits from foreign shores, 

And pink-lipped shells that ever mock 
The ocean as it roars; 

And in the mother's arms he folds 
The form that she adores. 

Through all the hovels of the poor 
He steals with noiseless tread, 

And presses kisses o'er and o'er 
Where sorrow's tears are shed, 

Till old caresses live once more 
That are forever dead. 

Above the soldier in his tent 
Are glorious battles fought; 

And o'er the prince's velvet couch, 
And o'er the peasant's cot, 

And o'er the pallet of disease 

His wondrous spells are wrought. 

He bends him oVr the artist's cot, 

And fills his dazzled mind 
With airy forms that float about 

485 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Like clouds in summer wind, 
O'er landscapes that the angels wrought 
And God Himself designed. 

And drifting through the poet's dreams 
The seraph trails her wings, 

And fills the chancels of his soul 
With heavenly whisperings; 

Till, swooning with delight, he hears 
The song he never sings. 

He walks the wide world's every way, 
This monarch grand and grim; 

All paths that reach the human heart, 
However faint and dim, 

He journeys, for the darkest night 
Is light as day to him. 

And thus the lordly Mordameer 

Rules o'er his mystic realm, 
With gems from out the star's red core 

To light his diadem, 
And kings and emperors to kneel 

And kiss his garment's hem. 

For once, upon a night of dreams, 

Adown the aisles of space 
I strayed so far that I forgot 

Mine own abiding-place, 
And wandered into Slumberland, 

And met him face to face. 

486 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

276 The Werewife 

CHE came to me in a dazzling guise 
^ Of gleaming tresses and glimmering eyes, 
With long, limp lashes that drooped and made 
For their baleful glances bowers of shade ; 
And a face so white — so white and sleek 
That the roses blooming in either cheek 
Flamed and burned with a crimson glow 
Redder than ruddiest roses blow — 
Redder than blood of the roses know 
That Autumn spills in the drifted snow. 
And what could my fluttering, moth-winged soul 
Do but hover in her control? — 
With its little, -bewildered bead-eyes fixed 
Where the gold and the white and the crimson mixed? 
And when the tune of her low laugh went 
Up from that ivory instrument 
That you would have called her throat, I swear 
The notes built nests in her gilded hair, 
And nestled and whistled and twittered there, 
And wooed me and won me to my despair. 
And thus it was that she lured me on, 
Till the latest gasp of my love was gone, 
And my soul lay dead, with a loathing face 
Turned in vain from her dread embrace, — 
For even its poor dead eyes could see 
Her sharp teeth sheathed in the flesh of me, 
And her dripping lips, as she turned to shake 
The red froth off that her greed did make, 
As my heart gripped hold of a deathless aehe, 
And the kiss of her stung like the fang of a snake. 
487 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

J// Out of the Dark and the Dearth 

TJO! but the darkness was densely black! 
■*■ ■*■ And young feet faltered and groped their way, 
With never the gleam of a star, alack ! 
Nor a moonbeam's lamest ray ! — 
Blind of light as the blind of sight. — 
And that was the night — the night ! 

And out of the blackness, vague and vast, 

And out of the dark and the dearth, behold \— 
A great ripe radiance grew at last 
And burst like a bubble of gold, 

Gilding the way that the feet danced on. — 
And that was the dawn— The Dawn ! 



3/8 For You 

T7 OR you, I could forget the gay 
-*• Delirium of merriment, 
And let my laughter die away 
In endless silence of content. 
I could forget, for your dear sake, 
The utter emptiness and ache 
Of every loss I ever knew. — 
What could I not forget for you? 

■ 
I could forget the just deserts 

Of mine own sins, and so erase 
The tear that burns, the smile that hurts, 
And all that mars and masks my face. 
488 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

For your fair sake I could forget 
The bonds of life that chafe and fret, 
Nor care if death were false or true. — 
What could I not forget for you? 

What could I not forget? Ah me! 

One thing I know would still abide 
Forever in my memory, 
Though all of love were lost beside — 
I yet would feel how first the wine 
Of your sweet lips made fools of mine 
Until they sung, all drunken through — 
"What could I not forget for you?" 



j/p Laughter 

\ \ 7*ITHIN the cosiest corner of my dreams 
* * He sits, high-throned above all gods that be 

Portrayed in marble-cold mythology, 
Since from his joyous eyes a twinkle gleams 
So warm with life and light it ever seems 

Spraying in mists of sunshine over me, 

And mingled with such rippling ecstasy 
As overleaps his lips in laughing streams. 

Ho! look on him, and say if he be old 
Or youthful ! Hand in hand with gray old Time 

He toddled when an infant; and, behold! — 
He hath not aged, but td the lusty prime 

Of babyhood — his brow a trillc bold — 

His hair a ravelled nimbus of gray gold. 

489 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
380 The Witch of Erkmurden 



\ "\ THO cantereth forth in the night so late — 

^ * So late in the night, and so nigh the dawn? 
'Tis The Witch of Erkmurden who leapeth the gate 
Of the old churchyard where the three Sprites wait 
Till the whir of her broom is gone. 

And who peereth down from the belfry tall, 

With the ghost-white face and the ghastly stare, 
With lean hands clinched in the grated wall 
Where the red vine rasps and the rank leaves fall, 
And the clock-stroke drowns his prayer? 



11 



The wee babe wails, and the storm grows loud, 

Nor deeper the dark of the night may be, 
For the lightning's claw, with a great wet cloud, 
Hath wiped the moon and the wild-eyed crowd 
Of the stars out wrathfully. 

Knuckled and kinked as the hunchback shade 

Of a thorn-tree bendeth the beldam old 
Over the couch where the mother-maid, 
With her prayerful eyes, and the babe are laid, 
Waiting the doom untold. 

"Mother, O Mother, I only crave 
Mercy for him and the babe — not me If 
490 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

"Hush ! for it maketh my brain to rave 
Of my two white shrouds, and my one wide grave, 
And a mound for my children three." 

"Mother, O Mother, I only pray 

Pity for him who is son to thee 
And more than my brother. — " "Wilt hush, I say ! 
Though I meet thee not at the Judgment Day, 

I will bury my children three !" 

"Then hark ! O Mother, I hear his cry — 

Hear his curse from the church-tower now, — 

'Ride thou witch till thy hate shall die, 

Yet hell as heaven eternally 
Be sealed to such as thou r 

An infant's wail — then a laugh, god wot, 

That strangled the echoes of deepest hell ; 
And a thousand shuttles of lightning shot, 
And the moon bulged out like a great red blot, 
And a shower of blood-stars fell. 

in 

There is one wide grave scooped under the eaves — 

Under the eaves as they weep and weep ; 
And, veiled by the mist that the dead storm weaves, 
The hag bends low, and the earth receives 
Mother and child asleep. 

There's the print of the hand at cither throat, 

And the frothy ooze at the lips of each. 
But both smile up where the new stars lloat, 
491 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And the moon sails out like a silver boat 
Unloosed from a stormy beach. 

IV 

Bright was the morn when the sexton gray- 
Twirled the rope of the old church bell, — 

But it answered not, and he tugged away — 

And lo, at his feet a dead man lay — 
Dropped down with a single knell. 

And the scared wight found, in the lean hand gripped, 

A scrip which read : a O the grave is wide, 
But it empty waits, for the low eaves dripped 
Their prayerful tears, and the three Sprites slipped 
Away with my babe and bride." 



381 Songs Tuneless 



T T E kisses me ! Ah, now, at last, 

-*■ •*■ He says good-night as it should be, 

His great warm eyes bent yearningly 
Above my face — his arms locked fast 
About me, and mine own eyes dim 
With happy tears for love of him. 

He kisses me ! Last night, beneath 
A swarm of stars, he said I stood 
His one fair form of womanhood, 
492 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And springing, shut me in the sheath 
Of a caress that almost hid 
Me from the good his kisses did. 

He kisses me ! He kisses me ! 

This is the sweetest song I know, 

And so I sing it very low 
And faint, and O so tenderly 

That, though you listen, none but he 
May hear it as he kisses me. 



"How can I make you love me more ?" — 
A thousand times she asks me this, 
Her lips uplifted with the kiss 

That I have tasted o'er and o'er. 
Till now I drain it with no sense 
Other than utter indolence. 

"How can I make you love me more?'* — 
A thousand times her questioning face 
Has nestled in its resting-place 

Unanswered, till, though I adore 
This thing of being loved, I doubt 
Not I could get along without. 

"How can she make me love her more?"— 
Ah ! little woman, if, indeed, 
I might be frank as is the need 

Of frankness, I would fall before 
Her very feet, and there confess 
My love were more if hers were less. 
493 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 



Since I am old I have no care 
To babble silly tales of when 
I loved, and lied, as other men 

Have done, who boasted here and there, 
They would have died for the fair thing 
They after murdered, marrying. 

Since I am old I reason thus — 
No thing survives, of all the past, 
But just regret enough to last 

Us till the clods have smothered us ; — 
Then, with our dead loves, side by side, 
We may, perhaps, be satisfied. 

Since I am old, and strive to blow 
Alive the embers of my youth 
And early loves, I find, in sooth, 

An old man's heart may burn so low, 
'Tis better just to calmly sit 
And rake the ashes over it. 



382 Tommy Smith 

T^VIMPLE-CHEEKED and rosy-lipped, 
-**-^ With his cap-rim backward tipped, 
Still in fancy I can see 
Little Tommy smile on me — 
Little Tommy Smith. 

494 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Little unsung Tommy Smith — 
Scarce a name to rhyme it with; 
Yet most tenderly to me 
Something sings unceasingly — 
Little Tommy Smith. 

On the verge of some far land 
Still forever does he stand, 
With his cap-rim rakishly 
Tilted; so he smiles on me — 
Little Tommy Smith. 

Elder-blooms contrast the grace 
Of the rover's radiant face — 
Whistling back, in mimicry, 
"Old— Bob— White I" all liquidly— 
Little Tommy Smith. 

Oh, my jaunty statuette 
Of first love, I see you yet, 
Though you smile so mistily, 
It is but through tears I see, 
Little Tommy Smith. 

But, with crown tipped back behind, 
And the glad hand of the wind 
Smoothing back your hair, I see 
Heaven's best angel smile on me, — 
Little Tommy Smith. 

495 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
383 Eternity 



OWHAT a weary while it is to stand, 
Telling the countless ages o'er and o'er, 

Till all the finger-tips held out before 
Our dazzled eyes by heaven's starry hand 
Drop one by one, yet at some dread command 

Are held again, and counted evermore! 

How feverish the music seems to pour 
Along the throbbing veins of anthems grand ! 

And how the cherubim sing on and on — 
The seraphim and angels — still in white — 

Still harping — still enraptured — far withdrawn 
In hovering armies tranced in endless flight ! 

. . . God's mercy ! is there never dusk or dawn, 

Or any crumb of gloom to feed upon? 

• 

384 Death 

TO, I am dying! And to feel the King 
■*— ' Of Terrors fasten on me, steeps all sense 
Of life, and love, and loss, and everything, 
In such deep calms of restful indolence, 
His keenest fangs of pain are sweet to me 
As fused kisses of mad lovers' lips 
When, flung shut-eyed in spasmed ecstasy, 
They feel the world spin past them in eclipse, 
And so thank God with ever-tightening lids ! 
But what I see, the soul of me forbids 
All utterance of; and what I hear and feel. 
The rattle in my throat could ill reveal 
496 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Though it were music to your ears as to 

Mine own. — Press closer — closer — I have grown 

So great, your puny arms about me thrown 

Seem powerless to hold me here with you ; — 

I slip away — I waver — and— I fall — 

Christ! What a plunge ! Where am I dropping? All 

My breath bursts into dust — I can not cry — 

I whirl — I reel and veer up overhead, 

And drop flat-faced against — against — the sky — 

Soh, bless me ! I am dead ! 



j#5 A Twintorette 

T TO! my little maiden 
-*• -*- With the glossy tresses, 
Come thou and dance with me 
A measure all divine; 
Let my breast be laden 

With but thy caresses — 
Come thou and glancingly 
Mate thy face with mine. 

Thou shalt trill a rondel, 

While my lips are purling 
Some dainty twitterings 
Sweeter than the birds'; 
And, with arms that fondle 
Each as we go twirling, 
We will kiss, with tittorings, 
Lisps and loving words. 
497 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

386 Dolores 

T ITHE-ARMED, and with satin-soft shoulders 
-*^ As white as the cream-crested wave ; 
With a gaze dazing every beholder's, 

She holds every gazer a slave : 
Her hair, a fair haze, is outfloated 

And flared in the air like a flame ; 
Bare-breasted, bare-browed and bare-throated — 

Too smooth for the soothliest name. 

She wiles you with wine, and wrings for you 

Ripe juices of citron and grape; 
She lifts up her lute and sings for you 

Till the soul of you seeks no escape; 
And you revel and reel with mad laughter, 

And fall at her feet, at her beck, 
And the scar of her sandal thereafter 

You wear like a gyve round your neck. 



387 There Was a Cherry-Tree 

r I ^HERE was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows 

-** Cool even now the fevered sight that knows 
No more its airy visions of pure joy — 
As when you were a boy. 



There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set 
His blue against its white — O blue as jet 
He seemed there then ! — But now — Whoever knew 
He was so pale a blue ! 
498 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

There was a cherry-tree — Our child-eyes saw 
The miracle : — Its pure white snows did thaw 
Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet 
But for a boy to eat. 

There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!- 
There was a bloom of snow — There was a boy- 
There was a Bluejay of the realest blue — 
And fruit for both of you. 



388 The Light of Love 

Song 

r T A HE clouds have deepened o'er the night 

*■ Till, through the dark profound, 
The moon is but a stain of light, 

And all the stars are drowned ; 
And all the stars are drowned, my love, 

And all the skies are drear; 
But what care we for light above, 

If light of love is here? 

The wind is like a wounded thing 

That beats about the gloom 
With baffled breast and drooping wing, 

And wail of deepest doom ; 
And wail of deepest doom, my love; 

But what have we to fear 
From night, or rain, or winds above. 

With love and laughter here? 
400 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

389 While the Heart Beats Young 

\\THILE the heart beats young! — O the splendor of the 

* * Spring, 

With all her dewy jewels on, is not so fair a thing! 
The fairest, rarest morning of the blossom-time of May 
Is not so sweet a season as the season of to-day 
While Youth's diviner climate folds and holds us, close 

caressed, 
As we feel our mothers with us by the touch of face and 

breast; — 
Our bare feet in the meadows, and our fancies up among 
The airy clouds of morning — while the heart beats young. 

While the heart beats young and our pulses leap and dance, 

With every day a holiday and life a glad romance, — 

We hear the birds with wonder, and with wonder watch 

their flight — 
Standing, still the more enchanted, both of hearing and of 

sight, 
When they have vanished wholly, — for, in fancy, wing-to- 
wing 
We fly to Heaven with them; and, returning, still we sing 
The praises of this lower Heaven with tireless voice and 

tongue, 
Even as the Master sanctions — while the heart beats young. 

While the heart beats young !— While the heart beats young ! 
O green and gold old Earth of ours, with azure overhung 



500 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And looped with rainbows ! — grant us yet this grassy lap 

of thine — 
We would be still thy children, through the shower and 

the shine ! 
So pray we, lisping, whispering, in childish love and trust, 
With our beseeching hands and faces lifted from the dust 
By fervor of the poem, all unwritten and unsung, 
Thou givest us in answer, while the heart beats young. 

390 Ere I Went Mad 

XI^RE I went mad — 

-*— ' O you may never guess what dreams I had ! 

Such hosts of happy things did come to me. 

One time, it seemed, I knelt at some one's knee, 

My wee lips threaded with a strand of prayer, 

With kinks of kisses in it here and there 

To stay and tangle it the while I knit 

A mother's long-forgotten name in it. 

Be sure, I dreamed it all, but I was glad 

— Ere I went mad ! 

Ere I went mad, 

I dreamed there came to me a fair-faced lad, 
Who led me by the wrist where blossoms grew 
In grassy lands, and where the skies were blue 
As his own eyes. And he did lisp and sing* 
And weave me wreaths where I sat marvelling 
What little prince it was thai crowned mo queen 
And CSMftghl my face so cunningly between 
llis dimple-dinted hands, and kept me glad 
— Ere I went mad ! 

5oi 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Ere I went mad, 

Not even winter weather made me sad — 

I dreamed, indeed, the skies were ne'er so dull 

That his smile might not make them beautiful. 

And now, it seemed, he had grown O so fair 

And straight and strong that, when he smoothed my hair, 

I felt as any lily with drooped head 

That leans, in fields of grain unharvested, 

By some lithe stalk of barley — pure and glad 

— Ere I went mad ! 

Ere I went mad, 

The last of all the happy dreams I had 

Was of a peerless king — a conqueror — 

Who crowned me with a kiss, and throned me for 

One hour ! Ah, God of Mercy ! what a dream 

To tincture life with! Yet I made no scream 

As I awakened — with these eyes you see, 

That may not smile till love comes back to me, 

And lulls me back to those old dreams I had 

— Ere I went mad. 



391 The Speeding of the King's Spite 

A KING — estranged from his loving Queen 
-*■*• By a foolish royal whim- 
Tired and sick of the dull routine 

Of matters surrounding him — 
Issued a mandate in this wise : — 

"The dower of my daughter's hand 
I will give to him who holds this prize, 
The strangest thing in the land" 
502 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But the King, sad sooth ! in this grim decree 

Had a motive low and mean; — 
'Twas a royal piece of chicanery, 

To harry and spite the Queen — 
For King though he was, and beyond compare 

He had ruled all things save one — < 
Then blamed the Queen that his only heir 

Was a daughter — not a son. 

The girl had grown, in the mothers care, 

Like a bud in the shine and shower 
That drinks of the wine of the balmy air 

Till it blooms into matchless flower ; 
Her waist was the rose's stem that bore 

The flower — and the flower's perfume — 
That ripens on, till it bulges o'er, 

With its wealth of bud and bloom. 

And she had a lover — lowly sprung, — 

But a purer, nobler heart 
Never spake in a courtlier tongue 

Or wooed with a dearer art : 
And the fair pair paled at the King's decree; 

But the smiling Fates contrived 
To have them wed, in a secrecy 

That the Queen herself connived — 

While the grim King's heralds scoured the land 

And the countries round about, 
Shouting aloud, at the King's command, 

A challenge to knave or lout, 



503 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Prince or peasant, — "The mighty King 

Would have ye understand 
That he who shows him the strangest thing 

Shall have his daughter's hand !" 

And thousands flocked to the royal throne, 

Bringing a thousand things 
Strange and curious; — One, a bone — 

The hinge of a fairy's wings : 
And one, the glass of a mermaid queen, 

Gemmed with a diamond dew, 
Where, down in its reflex, dimly seen, 

Her face smiled out at you. 

One brought a cluster of some strange date, 

With a subtle and searching tang 
That seemed, as you tasted, to penetrate 

The heart like a serpent's fang; 
And back you fell for a spell entranced, 

As cold as a corpse of stone, 
And heard your brains, as they laughed and danced 

And talked in an undertone. 

One brought a bird that could whistle a tune 

So piercingly pure and sweet, 
That tears would fall from the eyes of the moon 

In dewdrops at its feet; 
And the winds would sigh at the sweet refrain, 

Till they swooned in an ecstasy, 
To awaken again in a hurricane 

Of riot and jubilee. 



504 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

One brought a lute that was wro't of a shell 

Luminous as the shine 
Of a new-born star in a dewy dell, — 

And its strings were strands of wine 
That sprayed at the Fancy's touch and fused, 

As your listening spirit leant 
Drunken through with the airs that oozed 

From the o'ersweet instrument. 

One brought a tablet of ivory 

Whereon no thing was writ, — 
But, at night — and the dazzled eyes would see 

Flickering lines o'er it, — 
And each, as you read from the magic tome, 

Lightened and died in flame, 
And the memory held but a golden poem 

Too beautiful to name. 

Till it seemed all marvels that ever were known 

Or dreamed of under the sun 
Were brought and displayed at the royal throne, 

And put by, one by one ; — 
Till a graybeard monster came to the King — 

Haggard and wrinkled and old — 
And spread to his gaze this wondrous thing, — 

A gossamer veil of gold. — 

Strangely marvellous — mocking the gaze 

Like a tangle of bright sunshine, 
Dipping a million glittering rays 

In a baptism divine : 



505 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And a maiden, sheened in this gauze attire — 

Sifting a glance of her eye — 
Dazzled men's souls with a fierce desire 

To kiss and caress her and — die. 

And the grim King swore by his royal beard 

That the veil had won the prize, 
While the gray old monster blinked and leered 

With his lashless, red-rimmed eyes, 
As the fainting form of the princess fell, 

And the mother's heart went wild, 
Throbbing and swelling a muffled knell 

For the dead hopes of her child. 

But her clouded face with a faint smile shone, 

As suddenly, through the throng, 
Pushing his way to the royal throne, 

A fair youth strode along, 
While a strange smile hovered about his eyes, 

As he said to the grim old King: — 
"The veil of gold must lose the prize; 

For / have a stranger thing." 

He bent and whispered a sentence brief ; 

But the monarch shook his head, 
With a look expressive of unbelief— 

"It can't be so," he said ; 
"Or give me proof; and I, the King, 

Give you my daughter's hand. — 
For certes that is a stranger thing — 

The strangest thing in the land!" 

506 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Then the fair youth, turning, caught the Queen 

In a rapturous caress, 
While his lithe form towered in lordly mien, 

As he said in a brief address : — 
"My fair bride's mother is this; and, lo, 

As you stare in your royal awe, 
By this pure kiss do I proudly show 

A love for a mother-in-law I" 

Then a thaw set in on the old King's mood, 

And a sweet Spring freshet came 
Into his eyes, and his heart renewed 

Its love for the favored dame: 
But often he has been heard to declare 

That "he never could clearly see 
How, in the deuce, such a strange affair 

Could have ended so happily!" 



jp^ We Are Not Always Glad When 
We Smile 

\\ T E are not always glad when we smile: 
* * Though we wear a fair face and are gay. 
And the world we deceive 
May not ever believe 
We could laugh in a happier way. — 
Yet, down in the deeps of flhe BOUfc 
Ofttimes, with our faces aglow, 
There's an ache and a moan 
That we know of alone, 
And as only the hopeless may know. 
507 



I 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

We are not always glad when we smile, — 
For the heart, in a tempest of pain, 

May live in the guise 

Of a smile in the eyes 
As a rainbow may live in the rain ; 
And the stormiest night of our woe 
May hang out a radiant star 

Whose light in the sky 

Of despair is a lie 
As black as the thunder-clouds are. 

We are not always glad when we smile !i — 
But the conscience is quick to record, 
All the sorrow and sin 
We are hiding within 
Is plain in the sight of the Lord: 
And ever, O ever, till pride 
And evasion shall cease to defile 
The sacred recess 
Of the soul, we confess 
We are not always glad when we smile. 



3pj Busch and Tommy 

LITTLE Busch and Tommy Hays — 
'Small the theme, but large the praise- 
For two braver brothers, 
Of such toddling years and size, 
Bloom of face, and blue of eyes, 
Never trampled soldier-wise 
On the rights of mothers! 
508 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Even boldly facing their 
Therapeutic father's air 

Of complex abstraction, 
But to kindle — kindlier gaze, 
Wake more smiles and gracious ways- 
Ay, nor find in all their days 

Ampler satisfaction! 

Hail ye, then, with chirp and cheer, 
All wan patients, waiting here 

Bitterer medications ! — 
Busch and Tommy, tone us, too. — 
How our life-blood leaps anew, 
Under loving touch of you 

And your ministrations ! 



194 A Variation 

T AM tired of this ! 
■*■ Nothing else but loving! 
Nothing else but kiss and kiss, 
Coo, and turtle-doving ! 

Can't you change the order some? 

Hate me just a little — come ! 

Lay aside your "dears," 

"Darlings," "kings," and "princes !" — 
Call me knave, and dry your tears — 
Nothing in me winces, — 

Call me something low and base 
Something that will suit the case! 
509 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Wish I had your eyes 

And their drooping lashes ! 
I would dry their teary lies 
Up with lightning-flashes — 

Make your sobbing lips unsheathe 
All the glitter of your teeth! 

Can't you lift one word — 

With some pang of laughter — 
Louder than the drowsy bird 
Crooning 'neath the rafter? 
Just one bitter word, to shriek 
Madly at me as I speak! 

How I hate the fair 

Beauty of your forehead ! 
How I hate your fragrant hair ! 
How I hate the torrid 
Touches of your splendid lips, 
And the kiss that drips and drips! 

Ah, you pale at last! 

And your face is lifted 
Like a white sail to the blast, 
And your hands are shifted 
Into fists : and, towering thus, 
You are simply glorious ! 

Now before me looms, 

Something more than human; 

m 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Something more than beauty blooms 
In the wrath of Woman — 

Something to bow down before 
Reverently and adore. 



295 An Out-Worn Sappho 

T T OW tired I am ! I sink down all alone 
-*- -■■ Here by the wayside of the Present. Lo, 
Even as a child I hide my face and moan — 
A little girl that may no farther go : 
The path above me only seems to grow 

More rugged, climbing still, and ever briered 
With keener thorns of pain than these below ; 
And O the bleeding feet that falter so 
And are so very tired ! 

Why, I have journeyed from the far-off Lands 

Of Babyhood — where baby-lilies blew 
Their trumpets in mine ears, and filled my hands 
With treasures of perfume and honey-dew, 
And where the orchard shadows ever drew 

Their cool arms round me when my cheeks were fired 
With too much joy, and lulled mine eyelids to, 
And only let the starshine trickle through 
In sprays, when I was tired! 

Yet I remember} when the butterfly 

Went flickering about me like a flame 
That quenched itself in roses suddenly, 

How oft I wished that / might blaze the same, 

51' 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And in some rose-wreath nestle with my name, 

While all the world looked on it and admired. — 
Poor moth !— Along my wavering flight toward fame 
The winds drive backward, and my wings are lame 
And broken, bruised and tired! 

I hardly know the path from those old times ; 

I know at first it was a smoother one 
Than this that hurries past me now, and climbs 
So high, its far cliffs even hide the sun 
And shroud in gloom my journey scarce begun. 
I could not do quite all the world required — 
I could not do quite all I should have done, 
And in my eagerness I have outrun 

My strength — and I am tired. . . . 

Just tired ! But when of old I had the stay 
Of mother-hands, O very sweet indeed 
It was to dream that all the weary way 

I should but follow where I now must lead — 
For long ago they left me in my need, 

And, groping on alone, I tripped and mired 
Among rank grasses where the serpents breed 
In knotted coils about the feet of speed. — 
There first it was I tired. 

And yet I staggered on, and bore my load 
Right gallantly: The sun, in summer-time, 

In lazy belts came slipping down the road 

To woo me on, with many a glimmering rhyme 
Rained from the golden rim of some fair clime, 



512 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

That, hovering beyond the clouds, inspired 
My failing heart with fancies so sublime 
I half forgot my path of dust and grime, 
Though I was growing tired. 

And there were many voices cheering me : 

I listened to sweet praises where the wind 
Went laughing o'er my shoulders gleefully 
And scattering my love-songs far behind ; — 
Until, at last, I thought the world so kind — 
So rich in all my yearning soul desired — 
So generous — so loyally inclined, 
I grew to love and trust it. ... I was blind — 
Yea, blind as I was tired! 

And yet one hand held me in creature-touch : 

And O, how fain it was, how true and strong, 
How it did hold my heart up like a crutch, 
Till, in my dreams, I joyed to walk along 
The toilsome way, contented with a song — 

'Twas all of earthly things I had acquired, 
And 'twas enough, I feigned, or right or wrong, 
Since, binding me to man — a mortal thong — 
It stayed me, growing tired. . . . 

Yea, I had e'en resigned me to the strait 
Of earthly rulership — had bowed my head 

Acceptant of the master-mind — the great 
One lover — lord of all, — the perfected 
Kiss comrade of my soul; — had stammering said 

My prayers to him; — all — all that lie desired 
I rendered sacredly as we were wed. — 

3W 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Nay — nay ! — 'twas but a myth I worshipped. — I 
And — God of love! — how tired! 

For, O my friends, to lose the latest grasp- 
To feel the last hope slipping from its hold — 
To feel the one fond hand within your clasp 
Fall slack, and loosen with a touch so cold 
Its pressure may not warm you as of old 

Before the light of love had thus expired — 
To know your tears are worthless, though they rolled 
Their torrents out in molten drops of gold. — 
God's pity! I am tired! 

And I must rest. — Yet do not say "She died" 

In speaking of me, sleeping here alone. 
I kiss the grassy grave I sink beside, 
And close mine eyes in slumber all mine own: 
Hereafter I shall neither sob nor moan 

Nor murmur one complaint ; — all I desired, 
And failed in life to find, will now be known — 
So let me dream. Good night ! And on the stone 
Say simply : She was tired. 



396 After Death 

AH! this delights me more than words could tell, — 
-*** To just lie stark and still, with folded hands 
That tremble not at greeting or farewell, 
Nor fumble foolishly in loosened strands 
Of woman's hair, nor grip with jealousy 
To find her face turned elsewhere smilingly. 
514 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

With slumbrous lids, and mouth in mute repose, 

And lips that yearn no more for any kiss — 
Though it might drip, as from the red-lipped rose 
The dewdrop drips, 'twere not so sweet as this 
Unutterable density of rest 
That reigns in every vein of brain and breast ! 

And thus — soaked with still laughter through and through- 

I lie here dreaming of the forms that pass 
Above my grave, to drop, with tears, a few 
White flowers that but curdle the green grass; — 
And if they read such sermons, they could see 
How I do pity them that pity me. 



JP7 To the Wine-God Merhts 

[A Toast of Jucklet's] 

T TO! ho! thou jolly god, with kinked lips 
-■- •*■ And laughter-streaming eyes, thou liftest up 
The heart of me like any wassail-cup, 
And from its teeming brim, in foaming drips, 
Thou blowest all my cares. I cry to thee, 
Between the sips : — Drink long and lustily ; 
Drink thou my ripest joys, my richest mirth, 
My maddest staves of wanton minstrelsy ; 
Drink every song I've tinkered here on earth 
With any patch of music ; drink ! and be 
Thou drainer of my soul, and to the lees 
Drink all my lover-thrills and ecstasies; 
And with a final gulp — ho ! ho ! — drink me, 
And roll me o'er thy tongue eternally. 
515 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

398 A Lounger 

T T E leaned against a lamp-post, lost 

**m In some mysterious reverie : 

His head was bowed; his arms were crossed; 

He yawned, and glanced evasively: 
Uncrossed his arms, and slowly put 

Them back again, and scratched his side — 
Shifted his weight from foot to foot, 

And gazed out no-ward, idle-eyed. 

Grotesque of form and face and dress, 

And picturesque in every way — 

A figure that from day to day 
Drooped with a limper laziness; 

A figure such as artists lean, 

In pictures where distress is seen, 
Against low hovels where we guess 

No happiness has ever been. 

.,. . .. 

399 The Willozv 

'\\TmO shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow, 

* * Dainty-fine and, delicate as any bending spray 
That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a 
Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May. 

Bravest, too, of all the trees ! — none to match your daring, — 
First of greens to greet the Spring and lead in leafy 
sheen ; — 

Aye, and you're the last — almost into winter wearing 
Still the leaf of loyalty — still the badge of green. 

516 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Ah, my lovely Willow ! — let the Waters lilt your graces, — 
They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above, 

Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places 
Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love. 



400 The Quest 

j AM looking for Love. Has he passed this way, 

■^ With eyes as blue as the skies of May, 

And a face as fair as the summer dawn? — 

You answer back, but I wander on, — 

For you say : "Oh, yes ; but his eyes were gray, 

And his face as dim as a rainy day." 

Good friends, I query, I search for Love; 

His eyes are as blue as the skies above, 

And his smile as bright as the midst of May 

When the truce-bird pipes: Has he passed this way? 

And one says : "Ay ; but his face, alack ! 

Frowned as he passed, and his eyes were black." 

O who will tell me of Love? I cry! 
His eyes are as blue as the mid-May sky, 
And his face as bright as the morning sun; 
And you answer and mock me, every one, 
That his eyes were dark, and his face was wan. 
And he passed you frowning and wandered on. 

But stout of heart will I onward fare, 
Knowing my Love is beyond — somewhere, — 
517 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The Love I seek, with the eyes of blue, 
And the bright, sweet smile unknown of you; 
And on from the hour his trail is found 
I shall sing sonnets the whole year round. 



401 "Dream" 

T) ECAUSE her eyes were far too deep 
-*~* And holy for a laugh to leap 
Across the brink where sorrow tried 
To drown within the amber tide ; 
Because the looks, whose ripples kissed 
The trembling lids through tender mist, 
Were dazzled with a radiant gleam — 
Because of this I called her "Dream." 

Because the roses growing wild 
About her features when she smiled 
Were ever dewed with tears that fell 
With tenderness ineffable; 
Because her lips might spill a kiss 
That, dripping in a world like this, 
Would tincture death's myrrh-bitter stream 
To sweetness — so I called her "Dream." 

Because I could not understand 
The magic touches of a hand 
That seemed, beneath her strange control, 
To smooth the plumage of the soul 
And calm it, till, with folded wings, 
It half forgot its flutterings, 
5i8 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And, nestled in her palm, did seem 
To trill a song that called her "Dream." 

Because I saw her, in a sleep 
As dark and desolate and deep 
And fleeting as the taunting night 
That flings a vision of delight 
To some lorn martyr as he lies 
In slumber ere the day he dies — 
Because she vanished like a gleam 
Of glory, do I call her "Dream." 



402 The Little White Hearse 

A S the little white hearse went glimmering by — 
-*•*• The man on the coal-cart jerked his lines, 
And smutted the lid of either eye, 
And turned and stared at the business signs ; 

And the street-car driver stopped and beat 
His hands on his shoulders, and gazed up-street 
Till his eye on the long track reached the sky — 
As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 

As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 

A stranger petted a ragged child 
In the crowded walks, and she knew not why, 
But he gave her a coin for the way she smiled ; 

And a boot -black thrilled with a pleasure strange, 
As a customer put back his change 
With a kindly hand and a grateful Bigh, 
As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 
519 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

As the little white hearse went glimmering by — 

A man looked out of a window dim, 
And his cheeks were wet and his heart was dry, 
For a dead child even were dear to him ! 

And he thought of his empty life, and said : — 

"Loveless alive, and loveless dead— 

Nor wife nor child in earth or sky !" 

As the little white hearse went glimmering by. 



403 Three Several Birds 

The Romancer, the Poet, and the Bookman 
1 

THE ROMANCER 

HP HE Romancer's a nightingale, — 

■*• The moon wanes dewy-dim 
And all the stars grow faint and pale 

In listening to him. — 
To him the plot least plausible 

Is of the most avail, — 
He simply masters it because 

He takes it by the tale. 

O he's a nightingale, — 
His theme will never fail— 
It gains applause of all — because 
He takes it by the tale! 
520 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

The Romancer's a nightingale: — 

His is the sweetest note — 
The sweetest, woe-begonest wail 

Poured out of mortal throat: 
So, glad or sad, he ever draws 

Our best godspeed and hail; 
He highest lifts his theme — because 

He takes it by the tale. 

O he's a nightingale, — 
His theme will never fail — 
It gains applause of all — because 
He takes it by the tale! 



THE POET 

The bobolink he sings a single song, 

Right along, — 
And the robin sings another, all his own — 
One alone; 
And the whippoorwill, and bluebird, 
And the cockadoodle-doo-bird ; — 
But the mocking-bird he sings in every tone 

Ever known, 
Or chirrup-note of merriment or moan. 

So the Poet lie's the mock'uuj-bird of men, — 
lie steals his songs and sings tlicm o'er again; 

And yet beyond bcliri'lng 

They're the sweeter for his thieving, — 
521 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

So we'll howl for Mister Mocking-bird 
And have him out again! 

It's mighty fond we are of bobolinks, 

And chewinks; 
And we dote on dinky robins, quite a few — 
Yes, we do; 
And we love the dove, and bluebird, 
And the cockadoodle-doo-bird, — 
But the mocking-bird's the bird for me and you, 

Through and through, 
Since he sings as everybody wants him to. 

Ho! the Poet he's the mocking-bird of men, — 
He steals his songs and sings them o'er again; 

And yet beyond believing 

They're the sweeter for his thieving. — 
So we'll howl for Mister Mocking-bird 
And have him out again! 



in 

bookman's catch 

The Bookman he's a humming-bird- 
His feasts are honey-fine, — 
(With hi! hilloo! 
And clover-dew 
And roses lush and rare!) 
His roses are the phrase and word 
Of olden tomes divine; 

522 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

(With hi! and ho! 
And pinks ablow 
And posies everywhere!) 
The Bookman he's a humming-bird, — 

He steals from song to song — 
He scents the ripest-blooming rhyme, 

And takes his heart along 
And sacks all sweets of bursting verse 
And ballads, throng on throng. 
(With ho! and hey! 
And brook and brae, 
And brinks of shade and shine!) 

A humming-bird the Bookman is — 
Though cumbrous, gray and grim, — 
(With hi! hilloo! 
And honey-dew 
And odors musty-rare ! ) 
He bends him o'er that page of his 
As o'er the rose's rim. 
(With hi! and ho! 
And pinks aglow 
And roses everywhere!) 
Ay, he's the featest humming-bird, 

On airiest of wings 
He poises pendent o'er the poem 

That blossoms as it sings — 
God friend him as he dips his beak 
In such delicious things ! 
(With ho! and hey! 
And world away 
And only dreams for him!) 
5-M 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

404 To Bliss Carman 

T T E is the morning's poet — 
•** -*-. The bard of mount and moor, 
The minstrel fine of dewy shine, 
The dawning' s troubadour: 

The brother of the bluebird, 
'Mid blossoms, throng on throng, 

Whose singing calls, o'er orchard walls, 
Seem glitterings of song. 

He meets, with brow uncovered, 
The sunrise through the mist, 

With raptured eyes that range the skies 
And seas of amethyst : 

The brambled rose clings to him ; 

The breezy wood receives 
Him as the guest she loves the best 

And laughs through all her leaves : 

Pan and his nymphs and dryads 
They hear, in breathless pause, 

This earth-born wight lilt his delight, 
And envy him because ... 

He is the morning's poet — 
The bard of mount and moor, 

The minstrel fine of dewy shine, 
The dawning's troubadour. 

524 



A 1 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
405 Her Face and Brow 

H, help me ! but her face and brow 
■Are lovelier than lilies are 
Beneath the light of moon and star 
That smile as they are smiling now- 
White lilies in a pallid swoon 
Of sweetest white beneath the moon — 
White lilies, in a flood of bright 
Pure lucidness of liquid light 
Cascading down some plenilune, 
When all the azure overhead 
Blooms like a dazzling daisy-bed.— 
So luminous her face and brow, 
The luster of their glory, shed 
In memory, even, blinds me now. 



406 Song of Parting 

CAY farewell, and let me go; 

w ^ Shatter every vow ! 

All the future can bestow 
Will be welcome now ! 

And if this fair hand I touch 
I have worshipped overmuch, 
It was my mistake — and so, 
Say farewell, and let me go. 

Say farewell, and let me go : 
Murmur no jrdgrefy 

Stay your tear-drops ere they flow- 
Do not waste them yet ! 
5*5 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

They might pour as pours the rain, 
And not wash away the pain : — 
I have tried them and I know.— 
Say farewell, and let me go. 

Say farewell, and let me go : 

Think me not untrue — 
True as truth is, even so 
I am true to you ! 

If the ghost of love may stay 
Where my fond heart dies to-day, 
I am with you alway — so, 
Say farewell, and let me go. 



407 Some Imitations 

1 

POMONA 

{Madison Cawein) 

/^^\H, the golden afternoon ! — 
^-^ Like a ripened summer day 
That had fallen oversoon 

In the weedy orchard-way 
As an apple, ripe in June. 

He had left his fishrod leant 
O'er the footlog by the spring — 

Clomb the hill-path's high ascent, 
Whence a voice, down showering, 

Lured him, wondering as he went. 
526 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Not the voice of bee nor bird, 
Nay, nor voice of man nor child, 

Nor the creek's shoal-alto heard 
Blent with warblings sweet and wild 

Of the midstream, music-stirred. 

'Twas a goddess ! As the air 
Swirled to eddying silence, he 

Glimpsed about him, half aware 
Of some subtle sorcery 

Woven round him everywhere. 

Suavest hopes of pleasaunce, sown 
With long lines of fruited trees 

Weighed o'er grasses all unmown 
But by scythings of the breeze 

In prone swaths that flashed and shone 

Like silk locks of Faunus sleeked 
This, that way, and contrawise, 

Through whose bredes ambrosial leaked 
Oily amber sheens and dyes, 

Starred with petals purple-freaked. 

Here the bellflower swayed and swung, 

Greenly belfried high amid 
Thick leaves in whose covert sung 

Hermit-thrush, or katydid, 
Or the glowworm nightly clung. 

Here the damson, peach and pear ; 
There the plum, in Tyrian lints, 

5-7 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Like great grapes in clusters rare; 

And the metal-heavy quince 
Like a plummet dangled there. 

All ethereal, yet all 
Most material, — a theme 

Of some fabled festival — 

Save the fair face of his dream 

Smiling o'er the orchard wall. 



ii 

THE PASSING OF A ZEPHYR 

(Sidney Lanier) 

UP from, and out of, and over the opulent woods and 
the plains, 
Lo ! I leap nakedly loose, as the nudest of gods might 

choose, 
For to dash me away through the morning dews 
And the rathe Spring rains — 

Pat and pet the little green leaves of the trees and the grass, 
Till they seem to linger and cling, as I pass, 
And are touched to delicate contemporaneous tears of the 

rain and the dew, 
That lure mine eyes to weeping likewise, and to laughter, 

too: 
For I am become as the balmiest, stormiest zephyr of 

Spring, 
With manifold beads of the marvelous dew and the rain to 

string 

528 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

On the bended strands of the blossoms, blown 

And tossed and tousled and overthrown, 

And shifted and whirled, and lifted unfurled 

In the victory of the blossoming 

Of the flags of the flowery world. 

Yea, and behold! and a riotous zephyr, at last, 

I subside; I abate; I pass by; I am past. 

And the small, hoarse bass of the bumble-bee 

Is my requiem-psalm, 

And I fling me down to a listless, loitering, long eternity 

Of amiable calm. 



in 



A RHYME FOR CHRISTMAS 

T F Browning only were here 

**- This yule-ish time o' the year — 

This mul-ish time o' the year, 

Stubbornly still refusing 

To add to the rhymes we've been using 

Since the first Christmas-glee 

(One might say) chant ingly 

Rendered by rudest hinds 

Of the pelt-clad shepherding kinds 

Who didn't know Song from b- 

U-double-l's-foot ! — pah ! — 

(1 [aply the old Egyptian ptali — 

Though I'd hardly wager a baw- 

Bee -or a bumble, for that — 

And that's flat l) . . . 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But the thing that I want to get at 

Is a rhyme for Christmas — 

Nay ! nay ! nay ! nay ! not isthmus — 

The t- and the h-sounds covertly are 

Gnawing the nice auricular 

Senses until one may hear them gnar — 

And the terminal, too, for mas is mus, 

So that will not do for us. 

Try for it — sigh for it — cry for it — die for it ! 

O but if Browning were here to apply for it, 

He'd rhyme you Christmas — 

He'd make a mist pass 

Over — something o' ruther — 

Or find you the rhyme's very brother 

In lovers that kissed fast 

To baffle the moon — as he'd lose the £-f)nal 

In fas-t as it blended with to (mark the spinal 

Elison — tip-clipt as exquisitely nicely 

And hyper-exactly sliced to precisely 

The extremest technical need) : Or he'd twist 

glass, 
Or he'd have a kissed lass, 

Or shake 'neath our noses some great giant -fist- 
mass — 
No matter ! If Robert were here, he could do it, 
Though it took us till Christmas next year to see 
through it. 



530 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

408 To Benj. S. Parker 

Born, February 10, 1833 — Died, March 14, 191 1 

Written for The Indianapolis Star 

\TOXJ sang the song of rare delight 

-*■ ~ Tis morning and the days are long" — 
A morning fresh and fair and bright 
As ever dawned in happy song ; 
A radiant air, and here and there 
Were singing birds on sprays of bloom, 
And dewy splendors everywhere, 
And heavenly breaths of rose perfume — 
All rapturous things were in the song 
" 'Tis morning and the days are long." 

O singer of the song divine, 

Though now you turn your face away 

With never word for me or mine 

Nor smile forever and a day, 

We guess your meaning, and rejoice 

In what has come to you — the meed 

Beyond the search of mortal voice 

And only in the song indeed — 

With you forever, as the song, 

" 'Tis morning and the days are long." 



m 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

409 L' Envoy 

C NOW is in the air— 

^ Chill in blood and vein,— 

Winter everywhere 

Save in heart and brain ! 
Ho ! the happy year will we 

Mimic as we've found it, — 
Head of it — and you, and mc — 

With the holly round it ! 

Frost and sleet, alack ! — 
Wind as bleak as wrath 

Whips our faces back 
As we foot the path ;— 

But the year — from there to here — ' 
Copy as we've found it, — 

Heart up — like the head, my dear, 
' With the holly round it ! 



532 



THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE 
NIGHT 



T^ OR the Song's sake ; even so : 
•*• Humor it, and let it go 

All untamed and wild of wing- 
Leave it ever truanting. 



Be its flight elusive ! — Lo, 
For the Song's sake — even so. — 
Yield it but an ear as kind 
As thou perkest to the wind. 



Who will name us what the seas 
Have sung on for centuries? 
For the Song's sake ! Even so — 
Sing, O Seas ! and Breezes, blow ! 



Sing ! or Wave or Wind or Bird- 
Sing ! nor ever afterward 
Clear thy meaning to us— No! — 
For the Song's sake. Even so, 

533 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



King — of the Spirks 

The Queen — Second Consort to Krung 

The Tune-Fool 

Prince — Son of Krung 

A Princess — of the Wunks 

A Dwarf — of the Spirks 

Nightmares 



Krung 

Crestillomeem 
Spraivoll 
Amphine 

DWAINIE 
JUCKLET 

Creech and 
Gritchfang 

Counsellors, Courtiers, Heralds, etc., etc., etc. 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

4.10 The Flying Islands of the Night 

ACT I 

Scene — The Flying Islands 

Scene I. Spirkland. Time, Moondawn. Interior Court of 
Krung. A vast pendent star burns dimly in dome 
above throne. Crestillomeem discovered languidly 
reclining at foot of empty throne, an overturned gob- 
let lying near, as though just drained. The Queen, 
in seeming dazed, ecstatic state, r aptly gazing up- 
ward, listening. Swarming forms and features in air 
above, seem eeriely coming and going, blending and 
intermingling in domed ceiling-spaces of court. Weird 
music. Mystic, luminous, beautiful faces detached 
from swarm, float, singly, forward, — tremulously, and 
in succession, poising in mid-air and chanting. 

First Face 

And who hath known her — like as I 
Have known her? — since the envying sky- 
Filched from her cheeks its morning-hue, 
And from her eyes its glory, too, 
Of dazzling shine and diamond-dew. 

Second Face 

I knew her — long and long before 
High /Eo loosed her palm and thought: 
"What .awful splendor have I wrought 
To dazzle earth and Heaven, too!" 

Sas 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Third Face 

I knew her — long ere Night was o'er — 

Ere ^Eo yet conjectured what 

To fashion Day of — ay, before 

He sprinkled stars across the floor 

Of dark, and swept that form of mine, 

E'en as a fleck of blinded shine, 

Back to the black where light was not. 

Fourth Face 

Ere day was dreamt, I saw her face 
Lift from some starry hiding-place 
Where our old moon was kneeling while 
She lit its features with her smile. 

Fifth Face 

I knew her while these islands yet 

Were nestlings — ere they feathered wing, 

Or e'en could gape with them or get 

Apoise the laziest-ambling breeze, 

Or cheep, chirp out, or anything! 

When Time crooned rhymes of nurseries 

Above them — nodded, dozed and slept, 

And knew it not, till, wakening, 

The morning-stars agreed to sing 

And Heaven's first tender dews were wept. 

536 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Sixth Face 

I knew her when the jealous hands 
Of Angels set her sculptured form 
Upon a pedestal of storm 
And let her to this land with strands 
Of twisted lightnings. 

Seventh Face 

And I heard 
Her voice ere she could tone a word 
Of any but the Seraph-tongue. — 
And O sad-sweeter than all sung- 
Or word-said things ! — to hear her say, 
Between the tears she dashed away : — 
"Lo, launched from the offended sight 
Of JEo ! — anguish infinite 
Is ours, O Sisterhood of Sin ! 
Yet is thy service mine by right, 
And, sweet as I may rule it, thus 
Shall Sin's myrrh-savor taste to us — 
Sin's Empress — let my reign begin !" 

Chorus of Swarming Faces 

We follow thee forever on ! 

Thro' darkest night and dimmest dawn ; 

Thro' storm and calm — thro' shower and shine, 

Hear thou our voices answering thine : 
We follow — craving but to be 
Thy followers. — We follow thee — 
We follow, follow, follow thee ! 
537 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

We follow ever on and on — 
O'er hill and hollow, brake and lawn; 
Thro' grewsome vale and dread ravine 
Where light of day is never seen. — 
We waver not in loyalty, — 
Unfaltering we follow thee — 
We follow, follow, follow thee ! 

We follow ever on and on ! 
The shroud of night around us drawn, 
Though wet with mists, is wild-ashine 
Wi*h stars to light that path of thine ; — 

The glow-worms, too, befriend us— 
Shall fail not as we follow thee. 
We follow, follow, follow thee ! 

We follow ever on and on. — 
The notched reeds we pipe upon 
Are pithed with music, keener blown 
And blither where thou leadest lone — 
Glad pangs of its ecstatic glee 
Shall reach thee as we follow thee. 
We follow, follow, follow thee ! 

We follow ever on and on : 

We know the ways thy feet have gone, — 

The grass is greener, and the bloom 

Of roses richer in perfume — 

And birds of every blooming tree 
Sing sweeter as we follow thee. 
We follow, follow, follow thee ! 

538 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

We follow ever on and on; 
For wheresoever thou hast gone 
We hasten joyous, knowing there 
Is sweeter sin than otherwhere — 

Leave still its latest cup, that we 

May drain it as we follow thee. 

We follow, follow, follow thee ! 

[Throughout final stanzas, faces in fore- and forms in back- 
ground slowly vanish, and voices gradually fail to 
sheer silence. — Crestillomeem, rising, and wistfully 
gazing and listening; then, evidently regaining wonted 
self, looks to be assured of being wholly alone — then 
speaks.] 

Crestillomeem 

The Throne is throwing wide its gilded arms 

To welcome me. The Throne of Krung ! Ha ! ha ! 

Leap up, ye lazy echoes, and laugh loud ! 

For I, Crestillomeem, the Queen — ha ! ha ! 

Do fling my richest mirth into your mouths 

That ye may fatten ripe with mockery ! 

I marvel what the kingdom would become 

Were I not here to nurse it like a babe 

And dandle it above the reach and clutch 

Of intermeddlers in the royal line 

And their attendant serfs. Ho! Jucklet, ho! 

'Tis time my knarled warp of nice anatomy 

Were here, to weave us on upon our mesh 

Of silken villanics. Ho! Jucklet, ho! 

[Lifts secret door in pave and drops a star-bud through 
opening. Enter Jucki.it from below.] 
tS9 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

JUCKLET 

Spang sprit! my gracious Queen! but thou hast scorched 

My left ear to a cinder ! and my head 

Rings like a ding-dong on the coast of death ! 

For, patient hate ! thy hasty signal burst 

Full in my face as hitherward I came ! 

But though my lug be fried to crisp, and my 

Singed wig stinks like a little sun-stewed Wunk, 

I stretch my fragrant presence at thy feet 

And kiss thy sandal with a blistered lip. 

Crestillomeem 

Hold ! rare-done fool, lest I may bid the cook 

To bake thee brown ! How fares the King by this ? 

Jucklet 

Safe couched midmost his lordly hoard of books, 

I left him sleeping like a quinsied babe 

Next the guest-chamber of a poor man's house : 

But ere I came away, to rest mine ears, 

I salved his welded lids, uncorked his nose, 

And o'er the odorous blossom of his lips 

Re-squeezed the tinctured sponge, and felt his pulse 

Come staggering back to regularity. 

And four hours hence his Highness will awake 

And Peace will take a nap ! 

Crestillomeem 

Ha! What mean you? 
540 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Jucklet [Ominously] 

I mean that he suspects our knaveries. — 
Some covert spy is burrowed in the court — 
Nay, and I pray thee startle not aloud, 
But mute thy very heart in its out-throb, 
And let the blanching of thy cheeks but be 
A whispering sort of pallor ! 

Crestillomeem 

A spy? — Here? 

Jucklet 

Ay, here — and haply even now. And one 
Whose unseen eye seems ever focussed keen 
Upon our action, and whose hungering ear 
Eats every crumb of counsel that we drop 
In these our secret interviews ! — For he — 
The King — through all his talking-sleep to-day 
Hath jabbered of intrigue, conspiracy — 
Of treachery and hate in fellowship, 
With dire designs upon his royal bulk, 
To oust it from the Throne. 

Crestillomeem 

He spake my name ? 

Jucklet 

O Queen, he speaks not ever but thy name 
Makes melody of every sentence. — Yea, 
He thinks thee even true to him as thou 
Art fickle, false and subtle! O how blind 
541 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And lame, and deaf and dumb, and worn and weak, 

And faint, and sick, and all-commodious 

His dear love is ! In sooth, O wifely one, 

Thy malleable spouse doth mind me of 

That pliant hero of the bald old catch 

"The Lovely Husband." — Shall I wreak the thing? 

[Sings — with much affected gravity and grimace] 

O a lovely husband he was known, 

He loved his wife and her a-lone; 

She reaped the harvest he had sown ; 

She ate the meat; he picked the bone. 
With mixed admirers every size, 
She smiled on each without disguise; 
This lovely husband closed his eyes 
Lest he might take her by surprise. 

[Aside, exclamatory] 

Chorious Uproarious ! 

[Then pantomime as though pulling at bell-rope — singing 
in pent } explosive utterance.] 
Trot ! 
Run! 

Wasn't he a handy hubby? 
What 
Fun 

She could plot and plan! 
Not 
One 

Other such a dandy hubby 
As this lovely man! 
542 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Crestillomeem 

Or talk or tune, wilt thou wind up thy tongue 
Nor let it tangle in a knot of words ! 
What said the King? 

Jucklet [With recovered reverence] 

He said : "Crestillomeem — 
O that she knew this thick distress of mine ! — 
Her counsel would anoint me and her voice 
Would flow in limpid wisdom o'er my woes 
And, like a love-balm, lave my secret grief 
And lull my sleepless heart !" [Aside] And so went on, 
Struggling all maudlin in the wrangled web 
That well-nigh hath cocooned him ! 

Crestillomeem 

Did he yield 
No hint of this mysterious distress 
He needs must hold sequestered from his Queen? 
What said he in his talking-sleep by which 
Some clew were gained of how and when and whence 
His trouble came? 

Jucklet 

In one strange phase he spake 
As though some sprited lady talked with him. — 
Full courteously he said : "In woman's guise 
Thou comest, yet I think thou art, in sooth, 
But woman in thy form. — Thy words are Strange 
And leave mc mystified. T feel the truth 
Of all thou hast declared, and yet so vague 
543 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And shadow-like thy meaning is to me, 
I know not how to act to ward the blow 
Thou sayest is hanging o'er me even now." 
And then, with open hands held pleadingly, 
He asked, "Who is my foe?" — And o'er his face 
A sudden pallor flashed, like death itself, 
As though, if answer had been given, it 
Had fallen like a curse. 

Crestillomeem 

I'll stake my soul 
Thrice over in the grinning teeth of doom, 
'Tis Dwainie of the Wunks who peeks and peers 
With those fine eyes of hers in our affairs 
And carries Krung, in some disguise, these hints 
Of our intent ! See thou that silence falls 
Forever on her lips, and that the sight 
She wastes upon our secret action blurs 
With gray and grisly scum that shall for aye 
Conceal us from her gaze while she writhes blind 
And fangless as the fat worms of the grave ! 
Here ! take this tuft of downy druze, and when 
Thou comest on her, fronting full and fair, 
Say "Sherzham!" thrice, and fluff it in her face. 

JUCKLET 

Thou knowest scanty magic, O my Queen, 

But all thou dost is fairly excellent — 

And this charm work, thou shalt have fuller faith 

Than still I must withhold. 

[Takes charm, with extravagant salutation'] 
544 






THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Crestillomeem 

Thou gibing knave ! 
Thou thing! Dost dare to name my sorcery 
As any trifling gift? Behold what might 
Be thine an thy deserving wavered not 
In stable and abiding service to 
Thy Queen! 

[She presses suddenly her palm upon his eyes, then lifts 
her softly opening hand upward, his gaze following, 
where, slowly shaping in the air above them, appears 
semblance — or counter-self — of Crestillomeem, 
clothed in most radiant youth, her maiden-face bent 
downzvard to a moon-lit sward, where kneels a lover- 
knight — flawless in manly symmetry and princely 
beauty, — yet none other than the counter-self of 
Jucklet, eeriely and with strange sweetness singing, 
to some curiously tinkling instrument, the praises of 
its queenly mistress: Jucklet and Crestillomeem 
transfixed below — trancedly gazing on their mystic 
selves above.] 

Semblance of Jucklet [Sings] 

Crestillomeem! 

Crestillomeem! 
Soul of my slumber! — Dream of my dream! 
Moonlight may fall not as goldenly fair 
As falls the gold of thine opulent hair — 
Nay, nor the starlight as (tti&zMflgly gleam 
As gleam thine eyes, 'Mccma — CrcstiUomcem ! — 
Stars of the skies, 'Mrema — 

Crestillomeem! 
5-45 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Semblance of Crestillomeem [Sings] 

O Prince divine! 

O Prince divine! 
Tempt thou me not with that szveet voice of thine! 
Though my proud brow bear the blaze of a crown, 
Lo, at thy feet must its glory bow down, 
That from the dust thou mayest lift me to shine 
Heaven' d in thy heart's rapture, O Prince divine! — 
Queen of thy love ever, 

O Prince divine! 

Semblance of Jucklet [Sings] 

Crestillomeem! 

Crestillomeem! 
Our life shall flow as a musical stream — 
Windingly — placidly on shall it wend, 
Marged with mazhoora-bloom banks zvithout end — 
Word-birds shall call thee and dreamily scream, 
"Where dost thou cruise, 'Meema — Crestillomeem? 
Whither away, 'Meema? — 

Crestillomeem !" 
Duo 

[Vision and voices gradually failing away] 

Crestillomeem ! 

Crestillomeem! 
Soul of my slumber! — Dream of my dream! 
Star of Love's light, 'Meema — Crestillomeem! 
Crescent of Night, 'Meema! — 

Crestillomeem ! 

[With song, vision likewise fails utterly] 
546 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Crestillomeem 

[To Jucklet, still trancedly staring upward] 

How now, thou clabber-brained spudge ! — 
Thou squelk ! — thou — 

Jucklet 

Nay, O Queen ! contort me not 
To more condensed littleness than now 
My shamed frame incurreth on itself, 
Seeing what might fare with it, didst thou will 
Kindly to nip it with thy magic here 
And leave it living in that form i' the air, 
Forever pranking o'er the daisied sward 
In wake of sandal-prints that dint the dews 
As lightly as, in thy late maidenhood, 
Thine own must needs have done in flighting from 
The dread encroachments of the King. 



Crestillomeem 



Jucklet 



Nay — peace ! 



So be it, O sweet Mystic. — But I crave 

One service of thy magic yet. — Amphincl — 

Breed me some special, damned philter for 

Amphinc — the fair Amphine! — to chuck it him, 

Some serenade-tide, in a sodden slug 

O' pastry, 'twixt the door -crack and a screech 



547 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

O' rusty hinges. — Hey! Amphine, the fair! — 
And let me, too, elect his doom, O Queen! — 
Listed against thee, he, too, doubtless hath 
Been favored with an outline of our scheme. — 
And I would kick my soul all over hell 
If I might juggle his fine figure up 
In such a shape as mine ! 

Crestillomeem 

Then this : — When thou 
Canst come upon him bent above a flower, 
Or any blooming thing, and thou, arear, 
Shalt reach it first and, thwartwise, touch it fair, 
And with thy knuckle flick him on the knee, — 
Then — his fine form will shrink and shrivel up 
As warty as a toad's — so hideous, 
Thine own shall seem a marvel of rare grace ! 
Though idly speak'st thou of my mystic skill, 
'Twas that which won the King for me ; — 'twas that 
Bereft him of his daughter ere we had 
Been wedded yet a haed : — She strangely went 
Astray one moonset from the palace-steps — 
She went — nor yet returned. — Was it not strange ?- 
She would be wedded to an alien prince 
The morrow midnight — to a prince whose sire 
I once knew, in lost hours of lute and song, 
When he was but a prince — / but a mouth 
For him to lift up sippingly and drain 
To lees most ultimate of stammering sobs 
And maudlin wanderings of blinded breath. 



548 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Jucklet [Aside] 

Twigg-brebblets ! but her Majesty hath speech 
That doth bejuice all metaphor to drip 
And spray and mist of sweetness ! 

Crestillomeem [Confusedly] 

Where was I? 
O, ay ! — The princess went — she strangely went ! — 
E'en as I deemed her lover-princeling would 
As strangely go, were she not soon restored. — 
As so he did : — That airy penalty 
The jocund Fates provide our love-lorn wights 
In this glad island : So for thrice three nights 
They spun the prince his line and marked him pay 
It out (despite all warnings of his doom) 
In fast and sleepless search for her — and then 
They tripped his fumbling feet and he fell — up! — 
Up! — as 'tis writ — sheer past Heaven's flinching walls 
And topmost cornices. — Up — up and on ! — 
And, it is grimly guessed of those who thus 
For such a term bemoan an absent love, 
And so fall upwise, they must needs fall on — 
And on and on — and on — and on — and on ! 
Ha ! ha ! 

Jucklet 

Quahh! but the prince's holdcn breath 
Must ache his throat by this ! But, O my Queen, 
What of the princess? — and — 



549 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Crestillomeem 

The princess?— Ay- 
The princess ! Ay, she went — she strangely went ! 
And when the dainty vagrant came not back — 
Both sire and son in apprehensive throes 
Of royal grief — the very Throne befogged 
In sighs and tears ! — when all hope waned at last, 
And all the spies of Spirkland, in her quest, 
Came straggling empty-handed home again, — 
Why, then the wise King sleeved his rainy eyes 
And sagely thought the pretty princess had 
Strayed to the island's edge and tumbled off. 
I could have set his mind at ease on that — 
I could have told him, — yea, she tumbled off — 
/ tumbled her! — and tumbled her so plump, 
She tumbled in an under-island, then 
Just slow-unmooring from our own and poised 
For unknown voyagings of flight afar 
And all remote of latitudes of ours. — 
Ay, into that land I tumbled her from which 
But one charm known to art can tumble her 
Back into this, — and that charm (guilt be praised!) 
Is lodged not in the wit nor the desire 
Of my rare lore. 

Jucklet 

Thereinasmuch find joy! 
But dost thou know that rumors flutter now 
Among thy subjects of thy sorceries? — 
The art being banned, thou knowest ; or, unhoused, 
Is unleashed pitilessly by the grim, 

550 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Facetious body of the dridular 
Upon the one who fain had loosed the curse 
On others. — An my counsel be worth aught, 
Then have a care thy spells do not revert 
Upon thyself, nor yet mine own poor hulk 
O' fearsomeness ! 

Crestillomeem 

Ha ! ha ! No vaguest need 
Of apprehension there! — While Krung remains — 

[She abruptly pauses — startled first, then listening curi- 
ously and with awed interest. Voice of exquisite 
melodiousness and fervor heard singing.'] 

Voice 

When kings are kings, and kings are men — 
And the lonesome rain is raining ! — 

O who shall rule from the red throne then, 

And who shall covet the scepter when — 

When the winds are all complaining? 

When men are men, and men are kings — 

And the lonesome rain is raining ! — 
O who shall list as the minstrel sings 
Of the crown's hat, or the signet-ring's, 

When the winds are all complaining? 

Crestillomeem 

Whence flows such sweetness, and what voice is that ? 

55 1 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

JUCKLET 

The voice of Spraivoll, an mine ears be whet 
And honed o' late honeyed memories 
Behaunted the deserted purlieus of 
The court. 

Crestillomeem 

And who is Spraivoll, and what song 
Is that besung so blinding exquisite 
Of cadenced mystery? 

Jucklet 

Spraivoll— O Queen, — 
Spraivoll The Tune-Fool is she fitly named 
By those who meet her ere the day long wanes 
And naught but janiteering sparsely frets 
The cushioned silences and stagnant dusts 
Indifferently resuscitated by 
The drowsy varlets in mock servitude 
Of so refurbishing the royal halls : 
She cometh, alien, from Wunkland — so 
Hath she deposed to divers questioners 
Who have been smitten of her voice — as rich 
In melody as she is poor in mind. 
She hath been roosting, pitied of the hinds 
And scullions, round about the palace here 
For half a node. 

Crestillomeem 

And pray, where is she perched — 
This wild-bird woman with her wondrous throat? 

552 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

JUCKLET 

Under some dingy cornice, like enough — 

Though wild-bird she is not, being plumed in, 

Not feathers, but one fustioned stole — the like 

Of which so shameth her fair face one needs 

Must swear some lusty oaths, but that they shape 

Themselves full gentlewise in mildest prayer : — 

Not wild-bird; — nay, nor woman — though, in truth, 

She ith a licensed idiot, and drifts 

About, as restless and as useless, too, 

As any lazy breeze in summer-time. 

I'll call her forth to greet your Majesty. 

Ho ! Spraivoll ! Ho ! my twittering birdster, flit 

Thou hither. 

[Enter Spraivoll — from behind group of statuary — sing- 
ing.] 

Spraivoll 

Ting-aling ! Ling-ting ! Tingle-tee ! 
The moon spins round and round for me ! 
Wind it up with a golden key. 
Ting-aling ! Ling-ting ! Tingle-tec ! 



Crest illomkem 

Who art thou, and what the strange 
Elusive beauty and intent of thy 

Sweet aorlg? What sin^vst thou, vague, mystic bird 
What doth the Tune-Kool sing? Ay, sing me what. 
553 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Spraivoll [Singing] 

What sings the breene on the wertling-vine, 
And the tweck on the bamner-stem ? 

Their song, to me, is the same as mine, 
As mine is the same to them — to them — 
As mine is the same to them. 

In star-starved glooms where the plustre looms 

With its slender boughs above, 
Their song sprays down with the fragrant blooms,- 

And the song they sing is love — is love — 
And the song they sing is love. 

Jucklet 

Your Majesty may be surprised somewhat, 
But Spraivoll can not talk,— her only mode 
Of speech is melody; and thou might'st put 
The dowered fool a thousand queries, and, 
In like return, receive a thousand songs, 
All set to different tunes — as full of naught 
As space is full of emptiness. 

Crestillomeem 

A fool?— 
And with a gift so all-divine! — A fool? 

Jucklet 

Ay, warranted ! — The Flying Islands all 
Might flock in mighty counsel — moult, and shake 
Their loosened feathers, and sort every tuft, 
554 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Nor ever most minutely quarry there 
One other Spraivoll, itching with her voice 
Such favored spot of cuticle as she 
Alone selects here in our blissful realm. 

Crestillomeem 

Out, jester, on thy cumbrous wordiness! 
Come hither, Tune-Fool, and be not afraid, 
For I like fools so well I married one: 
And since thou art a Queen of fools, and he 
A King, why, I've a mind to bring ye two 
Together in some wise. Canst use thy song 
All times in such entrancing spirit one 
Who lists must so needs list, e'en though the song 
Go on unceasingly indefinite? 

Spraivoll [Singing] 

If one should ask me for a song, 
Then I should answer, and my tongue 

Would twitter, trill and troll along 
Until the song were done. 

Or should one ask me for my tongue, 
And I should answer with a song, 

I'd trill it till the song were sung, 
And troll it all along. 

Crestillomeem 

Thou art indeed a fool, and one, T think, 
To serve my present purposes. Give ear. — 

555 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And Jucklet, thou, go to the King and bide 

His waking: then repeat these words: — "The Queen 

Impatiently awaits his Majesty, 

And craves his presence in the Tower of Stars, 

That she may there express full tenderly 

Her great solicitude." And then, end thus, — 

"So much she bade, and drooped her glowing face 

Deep in the showering s of her golden hair, 

And with a flashing gesture of her arm 

Turned all the moonlight pallid, saying, 'Haste!'" 

Jucklet 

And would it not be well to hang a pearl 
Or twain upon thy silken lashes ? 

Crestillomeem 
Go! 

Jucklet [Exit, singing] 

This lovely husband's loyal breast 
Heaved only as she might suggest, — 
To every whimsy she expressed 
He proudly bowed and acquiesced. 
He plotted with her, blithe and gay — 
In no flirtation said her nay, — 
He even took her to the play, 
Excused himself and came away. 



556 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Crestillomeem [To Spraivoll] 

Now, Tune-Fool, junior, let me theme thee for 

A song : — An Empress once, with angel in 

Her face and devil in her heart, had wish 

To breed confusion to her sovereign lord, 

And work the downfall of his haughty son — 

The issue of a former marriage — who 

Bellowsed her hatred to the whitest heat, 

For that her own son, by a former lord, 

Was born a hideous dwarf, and reared aside 

From the sire's knowing or his princely own — 

That none, in sooth, might ever chance to guess 

The hapless mother of the hapless child. 

The Fiends that scar her thus, protect her still 

With outward beauty of both face and form. — 

It so is written, and so must remain 

Till magic greater than their own is found 

To hurl against her. So is she secure 

And proof above all fear. Now, listen well ! — 

Her present lord is haunted with a dream, 

That he is soon to pass, and so prepares 

(All havoc hath been wrangled with the drugs!) 

The Throne for the ascension of the son, 

His cursed heir, who still doth baffle all 

Her arts against him, e'en as though he were 

Protected by a skill beyond her own. 

Soh ! she, the Queen, doth rule the King in all 

Save this affectionate perversity 

Of favor for the son whom he would raise 

To his own place.- And but for this the king 

Long since had tasted death and kissel his late 

557 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

As one might kiss a bride ! But so his Queen 

Must needs withhold, not deal, the final blow, 

She yet doth bind him, spelled, still trusting her; 

And, by her craft and wanton flatteries, 

Doth sway his love to every purpose but 

The one most coveted. — And for this end 

She would make use of thee; — and if thou dost 

Her will, as her good pleasure shall direct, 

Why, thou shalt sing at court, in silken tire, 

Thy brow bound with wild diamonds, and thy hair 

Sown with such gems as laugh hysteric lights 

From glittering quespar, guenk and plennocynth,— 

Ay, even panoplied as might the fair 

Form of a very princess be, thy voice 

Shall woo the echoes of the listening Throne. 

Spraivoll [Crooning abstractedly] 

And O ! shall one — high brother of the air, 

In deeps of space — shall he have dream as fair? — 

And shall that dream be this? — In some strange place 

Of long-lost lands he finds her waiting face — 

Comes marvelling upon it, unaware, 

Set moonwise in the midnight of her hair, 

And is behaunted with old nights of May, 

So his glad lips do purl a roundelay 

Purloined from the echo-triller's beak, 

Seen keenly notching at some star's blanch cheek 

With its ecstatic twitterings, through dusk 

And sheen of dewy boughs of bloom and musk. 

For him, Love, light again the eyes of her 

That show nor tears nor laughter nor surprise — 

558 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

For him undim their glamour and the blur 

Of dreams drawn from the depths of deepest skies. 

He doth not know if any lily blows 

As fair of feature, nor of any rose. 

Crestillomeem [Aside] 

O this weird woman ! she doth drug mine ears 

With her uncanny sumptuousness of song! 

[To SpraivolL] Nay, Nay! Give o'er thy tuneful maun- 

derings 
And mark me further, Tune-Fool — ay, and well : — 
At present doth the King lie in a sleep 
Drug-wrought and deep as death — the after-phase 
Of an unconscious state, in which each act 
Of his throughout his waking hours is so 
Rehearsed, in manner, motion, deed and word, 
Her spies (the Queen's) that watch him, serving there 
As guardians o'er his royal slumbers, may 
Inform her of her lord's most secret thought. 
And lo, her plans have ripened even now 
Till, should he come upon his Throne to-night, 
Where eagerly his counsellors will bide 
His coming, — she, the Queen, hath reason to 
Suspect her long-designed purposes 
May fall in jeopardy; — but if he fail, 
Through any means, to lend his presence there, — 
Then y by a wheedled mandate, is his Queen 
Empozvered zvith all Sovereignty to reign 
And work the royal purposes instead. 
Therefore, the Queen hath set an interview — 
A conference to be holden with the King, 

559 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Which is ordained to fall on noon to-night, 

Twelve star-twirls ere the nick the Throne convenes. — ■ 

And with her thou shalt go, and bide in wait 

Until she signal thee to sing; and then 

Shalt thou so work upon his mellow mood 

With that un-Spirkly magic of thy voice — 

So all bedaze his waking thought with dreams, — 

The Queen may, all unnoticed, slip away, 

And leave thee singing to a throneless King. 

Spraivoll [Singing] 

And who shall sing for the haughty son 
While the good King droops his head? — 

And will he dream, when the song is done, 
That a princess fair lies dead? 

Crestillomeem 

The haughty son hath found his "Song" — sweet curse i- 
And may she sing his everlasting dirge ! 
She comes from that near-floating land of thine, 
Naming herself a princess of that realm 
So strangely peopled we would fain evade 
All mergence, and remain as strange to them 
As they to us. No less this Dwainie hath 
Most sinuously writhed and lithed her way 
Into court-favor here- — hath glidden past 
The King's encharmed sight and sleeked herself 
Within the very altars of his house — 
His line — his blood — his very life; — Amphine! 
Not any Spirkland gentlemaiden might 
Aspire so high as she hath dared to dare I 
56o 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

For she, with her fair skin and finer ways, 
And beauty second only to the Queen's, 
Hath caught the prince betwixt her mellow palms 
And stroked him flutterless. Didst ever thou 
In thy land hear of Dwainie of the Wunksf 

Spraivoll [Singing] 

Ay, Dwainie! — My Dwainie! 

The lurloo ever sings, 
A tremor in his flossy crest 

And in his glossy wings. 
And Dwainie ! — My Dwainie ! 

The winno-welvers call; — 
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 

And answers not at all. 

The teeper twitters Dwainie! — 

The tcheucker on his spray 
Teeters up and down the wind 

And will not fly away : 
And Dwainie ! — My Dwainie ! 

The drowsy oovers drawl; — 
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 

And answers not at all. 

O Dwainie ! — My Dwainie ! 

The breezes hold their breath — 
The stars are pale as blossoms, 

And the night as still as death: 
And Dwainie! — My Dwainie! 

The fainting echoes fall; — 
But Dwainie hides in Spirkland 

And answers not at all. 

561 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Crestillomeem. 

A melody ecstatic! and— thy words, 

Although so meaningless, seem something more — 

A vague and shadowy something, eerie-like, 

That maketh one to shiver over-chilled 

With curious, creeping sweetnesses of pain 

And catching breaths that flutter tremulous 

With sighs that dry the throat out icily. — 

But save thy music ! Come ! that I may make 

Thee ready for thy royal auditor. [Exeunt.] 

End Act I 



ACT II 

Scene I. A garden of Krung's Palace, screened from 
the moon with netted glenk-vines and blooming 
zhoomer -boughs, all glimmeringly lighted with star- 
flakes. An arbor, near which is a table spread with 
a repast— two seats, drawn either side. A playing 
fountain, at marge of which Amphine sits thrum- 
ming a trentoraine. 

Amphine [Improvising] 

Ah, help me! but her face and brow 
Are lovelier than lilies are 
Beneath the light of moon and star 
That smile as they are smiling now — 
White lilies in a pallid swoon 
Of sweetest white beneath the moon — 
562 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

White lilies in a flood of bright 
Pure lucidness of liquid-light 
Cascading down some plenilune 
When all the azure overhead 
Blooms like a dazzling daisy-bed. — 
So luminous her face and brow 
The luster of their glory, shed 
In memory, even, blinds me now. 

[Plaintively addressing instrument] 

O warbling strand of silver, where, O where 

Hast thou unravelled that sweet voice of thine 

And left its silken murmurs quavering 

In limp thrills of delight? O golden wire, 

Where hast thou spilled thy precious twinkerings? — 

What thirsty ear hath drained thy melody, 

And left me but a wild, delirious drop 

To tincture all my soul with vain desire? 

[Improvising ] 

Her face — her brow— rher hair unfurled ! — 

And O the oval chin below, 

Carved, like a cunning cameo, 

With one exquisite dimple, swirled 

With swimming shine and shade, and whirled 

The daintiest vortex poets know — 

The sweetest whirlpool ever twirled 

By Cupid's finger-tip, — and so, 

The deadliest maelstrom in the world. 

[Pauses. — Enter Dwainie, behind, in upper bower, unper- 

ceivcd.] 

sea 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Amphine [Again addressing instrument] 

O Trentoraine ! how like an emptied vase 

Thou art — whose clustering blooms of song have drooped 

And faded, one by one, and fallen away 

And left to me but dry and tuneless stems 

And crisp and withered tendrils of a voice 

Whose thrilling tone, now like a throttled sound, 

Lies stifled, faint, and gasping all in vain 

For utterance. 

[Again improvising] 

And O mad wars of blinding blurs 
And flashings of lance-blades of light, 
Whet glitteringly athwart the sight 
That dares confront those eyes of hers ! 
Let any dewdrop soak the hue 
Of any violet through and through, 
And then be colorless and dull, 
Compared with eyes so beautiful ! 
I swear ye that her eyes be bright 
As noonday, yet as dark as night — 
As bright as be the burnished bars 
Of rainbows set in sunny skies, 
And yet as deep and dark, her eyes, 
And lustrous black as blown-out stars. 

[Pauses — Dwainie still unperceived, radiantly smiling and 
wafting kisses down from trellis -window above.] 



564 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Amphine [Again to instrument] 

O empty husk of song! 
If deep within my heart the music thou 
Hast stored away might find an issuance, 
A fount of limpid laughter would leap up 
And gurgle from my lips, and all the winds 
Would revel with it, riotous with joy; 
And Dwainie, in her beauty, would lean o'er 
The battlements of night, and, like the moon, 
The glory of her face would light the world — 
For I would sing of love. 

Dwainie 

And she would hear- 
And, reaching overhead among the stars, 
Would scatter them like daisies at thy feet. 

Amphine 

O voice, where art thou floating on the air? — 

Seraph-soul, where art thou hovering? 

Dwainie 

1 hover in the zephyr of thy sighs, 

And tremble lest thy love for me shall fail 
To buoy me thus forever on the breath 
Of such a dream as Heaven envies. 

Am rii ink 

Ah! 



505 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

[Turning, discovers Dwainie — she feigning, still, invisibil- 
ity, while he, with lifted eyes and wistful gaze, pre- 
ludes with instrument — then sings.] 

Linger, my Dwainie! Dwainie, lily-fair, 
Stay yet thy step upon the casement-stair — 
Poised be thy slipper tip as is the tine 
Of some still star. — Ah, Dwainie — Dwainie mine, 
Yet linger — linger there ! 

Thy face, O Dwainie, lily-pure and fair, 
Gleams i* the dusk, as in thy dusky hair 
The moony zhoomer glimmers, or the shine 
Of thy swift smile. — Ah, Dwainie — Dwainie mine, 
Yet linger — linger there ! 

With lifted wrist, whereround the laughing air 
Hath blown a mist of lawn and clasped it there, 
Waft finger-thipt adieus that spray the wine 
Of thy waste kisses to'rd me, Dwainie mine — 
Yet linger — linger there ! 

What unloosed splendor is there may compare 
With thy hand's unfurled glory, anywhere? 
What glint of dazzling dew or jewel fine 
May mate thine eyes ? — Ah, Dwainie — Dwainie mine ! 
Yet linger — linger there ! 

My soul confronts thee : On thy brow and hair 
It lays its tenderness like palms of prayer — 
It touches sacredly those lips of thine 
And swoons across thy spirit, Dwainie mine, 
The while thou lingerest there. 

[Drops trentoraine, and, with open arms, gazes yearningly 

on Dwainie.] 

566 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Dwainie [Raptly] 
Thy words do wing my being dovewise ! 

Amphine 

Then, 
Thou lovest ! — O my homing dove, veer down 
And nestle in the warm home of my breast ! 
So empty are mine arms, so full my heart, 
The one must hold thee, or the other burst. 

Dwainie [Throzving herself in his embrace] 

^Eo's own hand methinks hath flung me here : 
O hold me that He may not pluck me back ! 

Amphine 

So closely will I hold thee that not e'en 
The hand of death shall separate us. 

Dwainie 

So 
May sweet death find us, then, that, woven thus 
In the corollo of a ripe caress, 
We may drop lightly, like twin plustre-buds, 
On Heaven's star-strewn lawn. 

Amphine 

So do I pray. 
But tell me, tender heart, an thou dost love. 
Where hast thou loitered for so long? — for thou 
Didst promise tryst here with me earlier by 
567 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Some several layodemes which I have told 

Full chafingly against my finger-tips 

Till the full complement, save three, are ranged 

Thy pitiless accusers, claiming, each, 

So many as their joined number be 

Shalt thou so many times lift up thy lips 

For mine's most lingering forgiveness. 

So, save thee, O my Sweet ! and rest thee, I 

Have ordered merl and viands to be brought 

For our refreshment here, where, thus alone, 

I may sip words with thee as well as wine. 

Why hast thou kept me so athirst? — Why, I 

Am jealous of the flattered solitudes 

In which thou walkest. [They sit at table.' 

Dwainie 

Nay, I will not tell, 
Since, an I yielded, countless questions, like 
In idlest worth, would waste our interview 
In speculations vain. — Let this suffice : — 
I stayed to talk with one whom, long ago, 
I met and knew, and grew to love, forsooth, 
In dreamy Wunkland. — Talked of mellow nights, 
And long, long hours of golden olden times 
When girlish happiness locked hands with me 
And we went spinning round, with naked feet 
In swaths of bruised roses ankle-deep; 
When laughter rang unsilenced, unrebuked, 
And prayers went unremembered, oozing clean 
From the drowsed memory, as from the eyes 
The pure, sweet mother-face that bent above 

568 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Glimmered and wavered, blurred, bent closer still 
A timeless instant, like a shadowy flame, 
Then flickered tremulously o'er the brow 
And went out in a kiss. 

Amphine [Kissing her] 

Not like to this! 
O blessed lips whose kiss alone may be 
Sweeter than their sweet speech! Speak on, and say 
Of what else talked thou and thy friend? 

Dwainie 

We talked 
Of all the past, ah me ! and all the friends 
That now await my coming. And we talked 
Of O so many things — so many things — 
That I but blend them all with dreams of when, . 
With thy warm hand clasped close in this of mine, 
We cross the floating bridge that soon again 
Will span the all-unfathomable gulfs 
Of nether air betwixt this isle of strife 
And my most glorious realm of changeless peace, 
Where summer night reigns ever and the moon 
Hangs ever ripe and lush with radiance 
Above a land where roses float on wings 
And fan their fragrance out so lavishly 
That Heaven hath hint of it, and oft therefrom 
Sends down to us across the odorous seas 
Strange argosies of interchanging bud 
And blossom, spice and balm. — Sweet — sweet 
Beyond all art and wit of ottering. 
5$j 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Amphine 

O Empress of my listening Soul, speak on, 
And tell me all of that rare land of thine ! — 
For even though I reigned a peerless king 
Within mine own, methinks I could fling down 
My scepter, signet, crown and royal might, 
And so fare down the thorned path of life 
If at its dwindling end my feet might touch 
Upon the shores of such a land as thou 
Dost paint for me — thy realm ! Tell on of it — 
And tell me if thy sister-woman there 
Is like to thee — Yet nay ! for an thou didst, 
These eyes would lose all speech of sight 
And call not back to thine their utter love. 
But tell me of thy brothers. — Are they great, 
And can they grapple ^Eo's arguments 
Beyond our skill? or wrest a purpose from 
The pink side of the moon at Darsten-tide? 
Or cipher out the problem of blind stars, 
That ever still do safely grope their way 
Among the thronging constellations? 



Dwainie 



Ay! 



Ay, they have leaped all earthland barriers 
In mine own isle of wisdom-working Wunks : — 
'Twas Wunkland's son that voyaged round the moon 
And moored his bark within the molten bays 
Of bubbling silver: And 'twas Wunkland's son 
That talked with Mars—- unbuckled Saturn's belt 
And tightened it in squeezure of such facts 
570 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Therefrom as even he dare not disclose 
In full till all his followers, as himself, 
Have grown them wings, and gat them beaks and claws, 
With plumage all bescienced to withstand 
All tensest flames — glaze-throated, too, and lung'd 
To swallow fiercest-spurted jets and cores 
Of embered and unquenchable white heat: 
'Twas Wunkland's son that alchemized the dews 
And bred all colored grasses that he wist — 
Divorced the airs and mists and caught the trick 
Of azure-tinting earth as well as sky : 
'Twas Wunkland's son that bent the rainbow straight 
And walked it like a street, and so returned 
To tell us it was made of hammered shine, 
Inlaid with strips of selvage from the sun 
And burnished with the rust of rotten stars: 
'Twas Wunkland's son that comprehended first 
All grosser things, and took our worlds apart 
And oiled their works with theories that clicked 
In glib articulation with the pulse 
And palpitation of the systemed facts. — 
And, circling ever round the farthest reach 
Of the remotest welkin of all truths, 
We stint not our investigations to 
Our worlds only, but query still beyond. — 
For now our goolores say, below these isles 
A million million miles, are other worlds — 
Not like to ours, but round, as bubbles are. 
And, like them, ever reeling on through space, 
And anchorless through all eternity; — 
Not like to ours, for our isles, as they note, 
Are living things that fly about at night, 
57 f 



1 
THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And soar above and cling, throughout the day, 
Like bats, beneath the bent sills of the skies : 
And I myself have heard, at dawn of moon, 
A liquid music filtered through my dreams, 
As though 'twere myriads of sweet voices, pent 
In some o'erhanging realm, had spilled themselves 
In streams of melody that trickled through 
The chinks and crannies of a crystal pave, 
Until the wasted juice of harmony, 
Slow-leaking o'er my senses, laved my soul 
In ecstasy divine : And afferhaiks, 
Who scour our coasts on missions for the King, 
Declare our island's shape is like the zhibb's 
When lolling in a trance upon the air 
With open wings upslant and motionless. 
O such a land it is — so all complete 
In all wise habitants, and knowledge, lore, 
Arts, sciences, perfected government 
And kingly wisdom, worth and majesty — 
And Art — ineffably above all else : — 
The art of the Romancer, — fabulous 
Beyond the miracles of strangest fact; 
The art of Poesy, — the sanest soul 
Is made mad with its uttering; the art 
Of Music, — words may not e'en whimper what 
The jewel-sounds of song yield to the sense; 
And, last, — the art of Knowing what to Know, 
And how to zoon straight to'rd it like a bee, 
Draining or song or poem as it brims 
And over-runs with raciest spirit-dew. — 
And, after, — chaos all to sense like thine, 
Till there, translated, thou shalt know as I. . . . 
572 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

So furnished forth in all things lovable 
Is my Land- Wondrous — ay, and thine to be, — 
O Amphine, love of mine, it lacks but thy 
Sweet presence to make it a paradise ! 
[Takes up trentoraine.] 
And shall I tell thee of the home that waits 
For thy glad coming, Amphine ? — Listen, then ! 

Chant-Recitative 

A palace veiled in a glimmering dusk; 

Warm breaths of a tropic air, 
Drugged with the odorous marzhoo's musk 

And the sumptuous cyncotwaire — 
Where the trembling hands of the lilwing's leaves 

The winds caress and fawn, 
While the dreamy starlight idly weaves 

Designs for the damask lawn. 

Densed in the depths of a dim eclipse 

Of palms, in a flowery space, 
A fountain leaps from the marble lips 

Of a girl, with a golden vase 
Held atip on a curving wrist, 

Drinking the drops that glance 
Laughingly in the glittering mist 

Of her crystal utterance. 

Archways looped o'er blooming walks 
That lead through gleaming halls; 

And balconies where the word-bird talks 
To the tittering waterfalls: 
573 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And casements, gauzed with the filmy sheen 

Of a lace that sifts the sight 
Through a ghost of bloom on the haunted screen 

That drips with the dews of light. 

Weird, pale shapes of sculptured stone, — 

With marble nymphs agaze 
Ever in fonts of amber, sown 

With seeds of gold and sprays 
Of emerald mosses, ever drowned, 

Where glimpses of shell and gem 
Peer from the depths, as round and round 

The nautilus nods at them. 

Faces blurred in a mazy dance, 

With a music, wild and sweet, 
Spinning the threads of the mad romance 

That tangles the waltzers' feet : 
Twining arms, and warm, swift thrills 

That pulse to the melody, 
Till the soul of the dancer dips and fills 

In the wells of ecstasy. 

Eyes that melt in a quivering ore 

Of love, and the molten kiss 
Jetted forth of the hearts that pour 

Their blood in the moulds of bliss. — 
Till, worn to a languor slumber-deep, 

The soul of the dreamer lifts 
A silken sail on the gulfs of sleep, 

And into the darkness drifts. 

[The instrument falls from her hands — Amphine, in stress 
of passionate delight, embraces her,] 

574 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Amphine 

Thou art not all of earth, O angel one ! 
Nor do I far miswonder me an thou 
Hast peered above the very walls of Heaven ! 
What hast thou seen there? — Didst on 7Eo bask 
Thine eyes and clothe Him with new splendorings ? 
And strove He to fling back as bright a smile 
As thine, the while He beckoned thee within? 
And, tell me, didst thou meet an angel there 
A-linger at the gates, nor entering 
Till I, her brother, joined her? 

Dwainie 

Why, hast thou 
A sister dead? — Truth, I have heard of one 
Long lost to thee — not dead? 

Amphine 

Of her I speak, — 
And dead, although we know not certainly, 
We moan us ever it must needs be death 
Only could hold her from us such long term 
Of changeless yearning for her glad return. 
She strayed away from us long, long ago. — 
O and our memories ! — Her wandering eyes 
That seemed as though they ever looked on things 
We might not see — as haply so they did, — 
For she went from us, all so suddenly — 
So strangely vanished* leaving never (race 
Of her outgoing, that I ofttimes think 

575 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Her rapt eyes fell along some certain path 
Of special glory paven for her feet, 
And fashioned of yEo's supreme desire 
That she, might bend her steps therein and so 
Reach Him again, unseen of our mere eyes. 
My sweet, sweet sister! — lost to brother — sire — 
And, to her heart, one dearer than all else, — 
Her lover — lost indeed! 

Dwainie 

Nay, do not grieve 
Thee thus, O loving heart ! Thy sister yet 
May come to thee in some glad way the Fates 
Are fashioning the while thy tear-drops fall ! 
So calm thee, while I speak of thine own self. — 
For I have listened to a whistling bird 
That pipes of waiting danger. Didst thou note 
No strange behavior of thy sire of late? 

Amphine 

Ay, he is silent, and he walks as one 

In some fixed melancholy, or as one 

Half waking. — Even his worshipped books seem now 

But things on shelves. 

Dwainie 

And doth he counsel not 
With thee in any wise pertaining to 
His ailings, or of matters looking toward 
His future purposes or his intents 

576 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Regarding thine own future fortunings 

And his desires and interests therein? 

What bearing hath he shown of late toward thee 

By which thou might'st beframe some estimate 

Of his mind's placid flow or turbulent? 

And hath he not so spoken thee at times 

Thou hast been 'wildered of his words, or grieved 

Of his strange manner? 

Amphine 

Once he stayed me on 
The palace-stair and whispered, "Lo, my son, 
Thy young reign draweth nigh — prepare !" — So passed 
And vanished as a wraith, so wan he was ! 

Dwainie 

And didst thou never reason on this thing, 
Nor ask thyself what dims thy father's eye 
And makes a brooding shadow of his form? 

Amphine 

Why, there's a household rumor that he dreams 
Death fareth ever at his side, and soon 
Shall signal him away. — But Jucklct saith 
Crestillomeem hath said the leeches say 
There is no cause for serious concern ; 
And thus am I assured 'tis nothing more 
Than childish fancy of mine aging sire, — 
And so, as now, T laugh, full reverently, 
And marvel, as 1 mark his shuffling gait, 

577 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And his bestrangered air and murmurous lips, 

As by he glideth to and fro, ha! ha! 

Ho ! ho !— I laugh me many, many times — 

Mind, thou, 'tis reverently I laugh— ha! ha! — 

And wonder, as he glideth ghostly-wise, 

If ever / shall waver as I walk, 

And stumble o'er my beard, and knit my brows, 

And o'er the dull mosaics of the pave 

Play chequers with mine eyes ! Ha ! ha ! 

Dwainie [Aside] 

How dare — 
How dare I tell him? Yet I must — I must! 

Amphine 

Why, art thou, too, grown childish, that thou canst 
Find thee waste pleasure talking to thyself 
And staring frowningly with eyes whose smiles 
I need so much? 

Dwainie 

Nay, rather say, their tears, 
Poor thoughtless Prince ! [Aside.] (My magic even now 
Forecasts his kingly sire's near happening 
Of nameless hurt and ache and awful stress 
Of agony supreme, when he shall stare 
The stark truth in the face!) 

Amphine 

What meanest thou? 
578 



Nay, 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

DWAINIE 

What mean I but thy welfare? Why, I mean, 
One hour agone, the Queen, thy mother — 

Amphine 
Say only "Queen" ! 

Dwainie 

— The Queen, one hour agone- 
As so I learned from source I need not say — 
Sent message craving audience with the King 
At noon to-night, within the Tower of Stars. — 
Thou knowest, only brief space following 
The time of her pent session thereso set 
In secret with the King alone, the Throne 
Is set, too, to convene ; and that the King 
Hath lent his seal unto a mandate that, 
Should he withhold his presence there, the Queen 
Shall be empowered to preside — to reign — 
Solely endowed to zvork the royal will 
In lieu of the good King. Now, therefore, I 
Have been advised that she, the Queen, by craft 
Connives to hold him absent purposely, 
That she may claim the vacancy — for what 
Covert design I know not, but I know 
It augurs peril to ye both, as to 
The Throne's own perpetuity. [Aside.] (Again 
My magic gives mc vision terrible : — 
The Sorceress' legions balk mine own. — The King 
Still hers, yet wavering. O save the King, 
Thou Mo\— Render him to us!) 
579 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Amphine 

I feel 
Thou speakest truth : and yet how know'st thou this ? 

Dwainie 

Ask me not that; my lips are welded close. — 
And, more, — since I have dared to speak, and thou 
To listen, — Jucklet is accessory, 
And even now is plotting for thy fall. 
But, Passion of my Soul ! think not of me, — 
For nothing but sheer magic may avail 
To work me harm; — but look thou to thyself! 
For thou art blameless cause of all the hate 
That rankleth in the bosom of the Queen. 
So have thine eyes unslumbered ever, that 
No step may steal behind thee — for in this 
Unlooked-of way thine enemy will come: 
This much I know, but for what fell intent 
Dare not surmise. — So look thou, night and day, 
That none may skulk upon thee in this wise 
Of dastardly attack: '[Aside.] (Ha! Sorceress! 
Thou palest, tossing wild and wantonly 
The smothering golden tempest of thy hair.— 
What! lying eyes! ye dare to utter tears? 
Help! help! Yield us the King!) 

Amphine 

And thou, O sweet ! 
How art thou guarded and what shield is thine 
Of safety? 

58o 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

DWAINIE 

Fear not thou for me at all. — 
Possessed am I of wondrous sorcery — 
The gift of Holy Magi at my birth : — 
Mine enemy must front me in assault 
And must with mummery of speech assail, 
And I will know him in first utterance — 
And so may thus disarm him, though he be 
A giant thrice in vasty form and force. 

[Singing heard.'] 
But, list! what wandering minstrel cometh here 
In the young night? 

Voice [In distance — singing] 

The drowsy eyes of the stars grow dim; 
The wamboo roosts on the rainbow's rim, 

And the moon is a ghost of shine: 
The soothing song of the crule is done, 
But the song of love is a soother one, 
And the song of love is mine. 
Then, wake! O wake! 
For the sweet song's sake, 

Nor let my heart 
With the morning break! 

Ampiiine 

Some serenader. Hist! 
What meaneth he so early, and what thus 
Within the palace pardon-close? Quick; Hfeffef! 
He nearetli! Soli! Lei us conceal ourselves 
And mark his action, wholly unobserved. 

581 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

[Amphine and Dwainie enter bower'] 

Voice [Drawing nearer] 

The mist of the morning, chill and gray, 
Wraps the night in a shroud of spray: 

The sun is a crimson blot: 
The moon fades fast, and the stars take wing; 
The comet's tail is a fleeting thing — 
But the tale of love is not. 
Then, wake! wake! 
For the sweet song's sake, 

Nor let my heart 
With the morning break! 

[Enter Jucklet] 

JUCKLET 

Eex! what a sumptuous darkness is the Night — 
How rich and deep and suave and velvety 
Its lovely blackness to a soul like mine ! 
Ah, Night! thou densest of all mysteries — 
Thou eeriest of unfathomable delights, 
Whose soundless sheer inscrutability 
Is fascination's own ethereal self, 
Unseen, and yet embodied — palpable, — 
An essence, yet a form of stableness 
That stays me — weighs me, as a giant palm 
Were laid on either shoulder. — Peace ! I cease 
Even to strive to grope one further pace, 
But stand uncovered and with lifted face. 
O but a glamour of inward light 
Hath smitten the eyes of my soul to-night ! 
58-2 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Groping here in the garden-land, 
I feel my fancy's outheld hand 
Touch the rim of a realm that seems 
Like an isle of bloom in a sea of dreams : 
I stand mazed, dazed and alone — alone ! — 
My heart beats on in an undertone, 
And I lean and listen long, and long, 
And I hold my breath as I hear again 
The chords of a long-dead trentoraine 
And the wraith of an old love-song. 
Low to myself am I whispering: — 

Glad am I, and the Night knows why — 
Glad am I that the dream came by 
And found me here as of old when I 
Was a ruler and a king. 

Dwainie [To Amphine] 

What gentle little monster is this dwarf — 
Surely not Jucklet of the court? 

Amphine [Ironically] 

Ay, ay ! 
But he'll ungentle an thy woman's-heart 
Yield him but space. Listen : he mouths again. 

Jucklet 

It was an age ago — an age 

Turned down in life like a folded page. — 

Sec where the volume falls apart, 

And the faded bookmark — 'tis my heart, — 



s«3 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Nor mine alone, but another knit 

So cunningly in the love of it 

That you must look, with a shaking head, 

Nor know the quick one from the dead. 

Ah ! what a broad and sea-like lawn 

Is the field of love they bloom upon ! — 

Waves of its violet-velvet grass 

Billowing, with the winds that pass, 

And breaking in a snow-white foam 

Of lily-crests on the shores of home. 

Low to myself am I whispering:— 

Glad am I, and the Night knows why — 
Glad am I that the dream came by 
And found me here as of old when I 
Was a ruler and a king. 

[Abruptly breaking into impassioned vocal burst] 

Song 

Fold me away in your arms, O Night — 

Night, my Night, with your rich black hair ! — 
Tumble it down till my yearning sight 
And my unkissed lips are hidden quite 
And my heart is havened there, — 
Under that mystical dark despair — 
Under your rich black hair. 

Oft have I looked in your eyes, O Night — 

Night, my Night, with your rich black hair ! — 
Looked in your eyes till my face waned white 

584 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

And my heart laid hold of a mad delight 
That moaned as I held it there 
Under the deeps of that dark despair — 
Under your rich black hair. 

Just for a kiss of your mouth, O Night — 

Night, my Night, with your rich black hair! — 
Lo ! will I wait as a dead man might 
Wait for the Judgment's dawning light, 
With my lips in a frozen prayer — 
Under this lovable dark despair — 
Under your rich black hair. 

[With swift change to mood of utter gayety] 

Ho ! ho ! what will my dainty mistress say 
When I shall stand knee-deep in the wet grass 
Beneath her lattice, and with upturned eyes 
And tongue out-lolling like the clapper of 
A bell, outpour her that? I wonder now 
If she will not put up her finger thus, 
And say, "Hist ! heart of mine ! the angels call 
To thee l" Ho ! ho ! Or will her blushing face 
Light up her dim boudoir and, from her glass, 
Flare back to her a flame upsprouting from 
The hot-cored socket of a soul whose light 
She thought long since had guttered out? — Ho! ho! 
Or, haply, will she chastely bend above — 
A Parian phantomcttc, with head atip 
And twinkling fingers dusting down the dews 
That glitter on the tarapy/ma vines 
That riot round her casement— gathering 
5*5 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Lush blooms to pelt me with while I below 
All winkingly await the fragrant shower? 
Ho ! ho ! how jolly is this thing of love ! 
But how much richer, rarer, jollier 
Than all the loves is this rare love of mine ! 
Why, my sweet Princess doth not even dream 
I am her lover, — for, to here confess, 
I have a way of wooing all mine own, 
And waste scant speech in creamy compliment 
And courtesies all gaumed with winy words. — 
In sooth, I do not woo at all — I zvin! 
How is it now the old duet doth glide 
Itself full ripplingly adown the grooves 
Of its quaint melody? — And whoso, by 
The bye, or by the way, or for the nonce, 
Or, eke ye, peradventure, ever durst 
Render a duet singly but myself? 

[Singing — with grotesque mimicry of two voices] 

Jucklet's Ostensible Duet 

How is it you woo? — and now answer me true, — 

How is it you woo and you win ? 
Why, to answer you true, — the first thing that you do 

Is to simply, my dearest — begin. 

But how can I begin to woo or to win 
When I don't know a Win from a Woo ? 

Why, cover your chin with your fan or your fin, 
And I'll introduce them to you. 



586 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

But what if it drew from my parents a view 

With my own in no manner akin? 
No matter! — your view shall be first of the two, — 

So I hasten to usher them in. 

Nay, stay ! Shall I grin at the Woo or the Win ? 

And what will he do if I do? 
Why, the Woo will begin with "How pleasant it's been!" 

And the Win with "Delighted with you!" 

Then supposing he grew very dear to my view — 

I'm speaking, you know, of the Win? 
Why, then, you should do what he wanted you to, — 

And nozv is the time to begin. 

The time to begin? O then usher him in — 

Let him say what he wants me to do. 
He is here. — He's a twin of yourself, — / am "Win," 

And you are, my darling, my "Woo" ! 

[Capering and courtesying to feigned audience] 

That song I call most sensible nonsense; 
And if the fair and peerless Dwainie were 
But here, with that sweet voice of hers, to take 
The part of "Woo," I'd be the happiest "Win" 
On this side of futurity! Ho! ho! 



Dwaintk \ Aside to Ampuink] 

What means he? 

587 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Amphine 

Why, he means that throatless head 
Of his needs further chucking down betwixt 
His cloven shoulders ! 

[Starting forward — Dwainie detaining him] 

Dwainie 

Nay, thou shalt not stir! 
See ! now the monster hath discovered our 
Repast. Hold ! Let us mark him further. 

Jucklet [Archly eying viands] 

What! 
A roasted wheffle and a toc-spiced whum, 
Tricked with a larvey and a gherghgling's tail ! — 
And, sprit me ! wine enough to swim them in ! 
Now I should like to put a question to 
The guests; but as there are none, I direct 
Mine interrogatory to the host. 

[Bowing to vacancy] 

Am I behind-time? — Then I can but trust 
My tardy coming may be overlooked 
In my most active effort to regain 
A gracious tolerance by service now : — 
Directing rapt attention to the fact 
That I have brought mine appetite along, 
I can but feel, ho! ho! that further words 
Would be a waste of speech. 

[Sits at table — pours out wine, drinks and eats vora- 
ciously.] 

588 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

— There was a time 
When I was rather backward in my ways 
In courtly company (as though, forsooth, 
I felt not, from my very birth, the swish 
Of royal blood along my veins, though bred 
Amongst the treacled scullions and the thralls 
I shot from, like a cork, in youthful years, 
Into court-favor by my wit's sheer stress 
Of fomentation. — Pah! the stench o' toil!) 
Ay, somehow, as I think, I've all outgrown 
That coarse, nice age, wherein one makes a meal 
Of two estardles and a fork of soup. 
Hey ! sanaloo ! Lest my starved stomach stand 
Awe-stricken and aghast, with mouth agape 
Before the rich profusion of this feast, 
I lubricate it with a glass of merl 
And coax it on to more familiar terms 
Of fellowship with those delectables. 

[Pours wine and holds up goblet with mock courtliness'} 

Mine host ! — Thou of the viewless presence and 
Hush-haunted lip : — Thy most imperial, 
Ethereal, and immaterial health ! 
Live till the sun dries up, and comb thy cares 
With star-prongs till the comets fizzle out 
And fade away and fail and are no more ! 

{Drains and refills goblet] 

And, if thou wilt permit me to observe. — 
The gleaming shrift of spirit in this wine 
Goes whistling to its mark, and full and fait 
589 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Zipps to the target-center of my soul ! 
Why, now am I the veriest gentleman 
That ever buttered woman with a smile, 
And let her melt and run and drip and ooze 
All over and around a wanton heart ! 
And if my mistress bent above me now, 
In all my hideous deformity, 
I think she would look over, as it were, 
The hump upon my back, and so forget 
The kinks and knuckles of my crooked legs, 
In this enchanting smile, she needs must leap, 
Love-dazzled, and fall faint and fluttering 
Within these yawning, all-devouring arms 
Of mine ! Ho ! ho ! And yet Crestillomeem 
Would have me blight my dainty Dwainie with 
This feather from the Devil's wing! — But I 
Am far too full of craft to spoil the eyes 
That yet shall pour their love like nectar out 
Into mine own, — and I am far too deep 
For royal wit to wade my purposes. 

Dwainie [To Amphine] 
What can he mean? 

Amphine [Chafing in suppressed frenzy] 

Ha ! to rush forward and 
Tear out his tongue and slap it in his face ! 

Dwainie [To Amphine] 

Nay, nay ! Hist what he saith ! 
590 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

JUCKLET 

How big a fool — 
How all magnificent an idiot 
Would I be to blight her — (my peerless one! — 
My very soul's soul!) as Crestillomeem 
Doth instigate me to, for her hate's sake — 
And inward jealousy, as well, belike ! — 
Wouldst have my Dwainie blinded to my charms- 
For charms, good sooth, were every several flaw 
Of my malformed outer-self, compared 
With that his Handsomeness the Prince Amphine 
Shalt change to at a breath of my puff'd cheek, 
E'en were it weedy-bearded at the time 
With such a stubble as a huntsman well 
Might lose his spaniel in ! Ho ! ho ! Ho ! ho ! 
I fear me, O my coy Crestillomeem, 
Thine ancient coquetry doth challenge still 
Thine own vain admiration overmuch ! 
/ to crush her? — when thou, as certainly, 
Hast armed me to smite down the only bar 
That lies betwixt her love and mine? Ho! ho! 
Hey! but the revel I shall riot in 
Above the beauteous Prince, instantuously 
Made all abhorrent as a reptiled bulk ! 
Ho ! ho ! my princely wooer of the fair 
Rare lady of mine own superior choice! 
Pah ! but my very 'maginings of him 
RcTmcd to that shamed, sickening shape, 
Do so beloathe me of him there be qualms 
Expostulating in my forum now! 
Ho | what nnprincifying properties 
Of medical ion hath her Majesty 

59 1 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Put in my tender charge ! Ho ! ho ! Ho ! ho ! 
Ah, Dwainie! sweetest sweet! what shock to thee? — 
I wonder, when she sees the human toad 
Squat at her feet and cock his filmy eyes 
Upon her and croak love, if she will not 
Call me to tweezer him with two long sticks 
And toss him from her path. — O ho ! Ho ! ho ! 
Hell bend him o'er some blossom quick, that I 
May have one brother in the flesh ! 

[Nods drozvsily] 

Dwainie [To Amphine] 

Ha! See! 
He groweth drunken. — Soh ! Bide yet a spell 
And I will vex him with my sorcery: 
Then shall we hence, — for lo, the node when all 
Our subtlest arts and strategies must needs 
Be quickened into acts and swift results. 
Now bide thou here, and in mute silence mark 
The righteous penalty that hath accrued 
Upon that dwarfed monster. 

[She stands, still in concealment from the dwarf, her tense 
gaze fixed upon him as though in mute and painful 
act of incantation. — Jucklet affected drowsily — 
yawns and mumbles incoherently — stretches, and 
gradually sinks at full length on the sward. — 
Dwainie moves forward — Amphine, following, is 
about to set foot contemptuously on sleeper's breast, 
but is caught and held away by Dwainie, who im- 
periously waves him back, and still, in pantomime, 
592 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

commanding, bids him turn and hide his face — Am- 
phine obeying as though unable to do otherwise. 
Dwainie then unbinds her hair, and throwing it all 
forward covering her face and bending till it trails 
the ground, she lifts to the knee her dress, and so 
walks backward in a circle round the sleeping Juck- 
let, crooning to herself an incoherent song. Then 
pausing, letting fall her gown, and rising to full stat- 
ure, waves her hands above the sleeper's face, and 
runs to Amphine, who turns about and gazes on 
her with new wonderment.] 

Dwainie [To Amphine] 

Now shalt thou 
Look on such scaith as thou hast never dreamed. 

[As she speaks, half averting her face as with melancholy 
apprehension, chorus of lugubrious voices heard 
chanting discordantly.] 

Voices 

When the fat moon smiles, 
And the comets kiss, 

And the elves of Spirkland flit, 
The Whanghoo twunkers 
A tune like this, 

And the Nightmares champ the bit. 

[As chorus dies away, a comet, freighted with weird shapes, 
dips from the night and trails near JuCKLET's sleep 
M0 figure, while, with attendant goblin- f onus, two 
593 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Nightmares, Creech and Gritchfang, alight. — The 
comet hisses, switches its tail and disappears, while 
the two goblins hover buzzingly over Jucklet, who 
starts wide-eyed and stares fixedly at them, with 
horribly contorted features.'] 

Creech [To Gritchfang] 
Buzz! 
Buzz ! 

Buzz! 
Buzz! 
Flutter your wings like your grandmother does ! 
Tuck in your chin and wheel over and whir-r-r 
Like a dickerbug fast in the web of the wuhrr ! 
Reel out your tongue, and untangle your toes 
And rattle your claws o'er the bridge of his nose; 
Tickle his ears with your feathers and fuzz, 
And keep up a hum like your grandmother does ! 

[Jucklet moans and clutches at air convulsively.] 

Amphine [Shuddering] 

Most grewsome sight ! See how the poor worm writhes ! 
How must he suffer ! 

Dwainie 

Ay, but good is meant — 
A far voice sings it so. 



594 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Gritchfang [To Creech] 

Let me dive deep in his nostriline caves, 
And keep an eye out as to how he behaves : 
Fasten him down while I put him to rack — 
And don't let him flop from the flat of his back ! 

[Shrinks to minute size, while goblin attendants pluck from 
shrubbery a great lily-shaped flower which they in- 
vert funnel-wise, with small end at sleeper's nostrils, 
hoisting Gritchfang in at top and jostling shape 
downward gradually from sight, and — removing 
flovoer, — voice of Gritchfang continues gleefully 
from within sleeper's head.] 

Ho ! I have bored through the floor of his brains, 
And set them all writhing with torturous pains ; 
And I shriek out the prayer, as I whistle and whiz, 
I may be the nightmare that my grandmother is ! 

[Reappears, through reversal of flovoer -method, assuming 
former shape, crosses to Creech, and, joining, the 
twain dance on sleeper's stomach in broken time to 
duo.] 

Duo 
Whing! 

Whang ! 

So our ancestors sang! 
And they guzzled hoi blood and blow up with a bang! — 

lint they ever tenaciously clung to the rule 
To only blow up in the hull of a fool— 

505 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

To fizz and explode like a cast-iron toad 

In the cavernous depths where his victuals were stowed — 

When chances were ripest and thickest and best 

To burst every button-hole out of his vest ! 

[They pause, float high above, and fusing together into a 
great square iron weight, drop heavily on chest of 
sleeper, who moans piteously.] 

Amphine [Hiding his face] 

Ah ! take me hence ! 

[Dwainie leads him off, looking backward as she goes and 
waving her hands imploringly to Creech and 
Gritchfang, reassuming former shapes, in ecstasies 
of insane delight.] 

Creech [To Gritchfang] 
Zipp! 

Zipp! 

Zipp! 

Zipp! 
Sting his tongue raw and unravel his lip ! 
Grope, on the right, down his windpipe, and squeeze 
His liver as dry as a petrified wheeze ! 

[Gritchfang — as before — shrinks and disappears at sleep- 
er's mouth.] 

Throttle his heart till he's black in the face, 
And bury it down in some desolate place 
596 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Where only remorse in pent agony lives 

To dread the advice that your grandmother gives ! 

[The sleeper struggles contortedly, while voice of Gritch- 
fang calls from within.] 

Gritchfang 

Ho-ho ! I have clambered the rungs of his ribs 
And beriddled his lungs into tatters and dribs ; 
And I turn up the tube of his heart like a hose 
And squirt all the blood to the end of his nose ! 
I stamp on his stomach and caper and prance, 
With my tail tossing round like a boomerang-lance ! 
And thus may success ever crown my intent 
To wander the ways that my grandmother went ! 

[Reappears, falls hysterically in Creech's outstretched 
arms. — Then dance and duo.] 



Whing 



Duo 
Whung ! 



So our ancestors sung ! 
And they snorted and pawed, and they hissed and they 

stung, — 
Taking special terrific delight in their work 
On the fools that they found in the lands of the Spirk. — 
And each little grain of their powders of pain 
They scraped up and pestled again ami again — 
Mixed in quadruple doses for gluttons and sots. 
Till they strangled their dreams with gung-jihbrious knots ! 
597 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

[The comet again trails past, upon which the Nightmares 
leap and disappear. Jucklet staggers to his feet and 
glares frenziedly around — then starts for opposite 
exit of comet — m, there suddenly confronted with 
fiend-faces in the air, bewhiskered with ragged pur- 
plish flames that flare audibly and huskily in abrupt 
alternating chill gasps and hot welterings of wind. 
He starts back from them, reels and falls prostrate, 
groveling terrifiedly in the dust, and chattering, with 
eerie music accompanying his broken utterance.'] 

Jucklet 
Mo ! ^o ! Mo ! 
Thou that dost all things know — 

Waiving all claims of mine to dare to pray, 
Save that I needs must: — Lo, 

What may I pray for? Yea, 

I have not any way, 
An Thou gainsayest me a tolerance so.— 

I dare not pray 

Forgiveness — too great 
My vast o'ertoppling weight 

Of sinning; nor can I 

Pray my 
Poor soul unscourged to go. — 
Frame Thou my prayer, Mo ! 

What may I pray for? Dare 
I shape a prayer, 
In sooth, 
For any cancelled joy 

Of my mad youth, 
Or any bliss my sin's stress did destroy? 
598 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

What may I pray for — What ? — 

That the wild clusters of forget-me-not 

And mignonette 

And violet 
Be out of childhood brought, 

And in mine hard heart set 
A-blooming now as then ? — 

With all their petals yet 
Bediamonded with dews — 
Their sweet, sweet scent let loose 
Full sumptuously again { 

What may I pray, ^o ! 

For the poor hutched cot 

Where death sate squat 
Midst my first memories? — Lo! 
My mother's face — (they, whispering, told me so)- 

That face ! — so pinchedly 

It blanched up, as they lifted me — 
Its frozen eyelids would 
Not part, nor could 

Be ever wetted open with warm tears. 

. . . Who hears 
The prayers for all dead-mother-sakes, 7Eo ! 

Leastwise one mercy : — May 
I not have leave to pray 
All self to pass away — 

Forgetful of all needs mine own — 

Neglectful of all creeds; — alone, 



599 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Stand fronting Thy high throne and say : 

To Thee, 
O Infinite, I pray 

Shield Thou mine enemy ! 

[Music throughout supplication gradually softens and 
sweetens into utter gentleness, with scene slow-fad- 
ing into densest night.] 

End Act II 



ACT in 

Scene I. Court of Krung — Royal Ministers, Counsellors, 
etc., in session. Crestillomeem, in full blazonry of 
regal attire, presiding. She signals a Herald at her 
left, who steps forward. — Blare of trumpets, greeted 
with ominous murmurings within, blent with tumult 
from without. 

Herald 

Hist, ho! Ay, ay! Ay, ay! — Her Majesty, 
The All-Glorious and Ever-Gracious Queen, 
Crestillomeem, to her most loyal, leal 
And right devoted subjects, greeting sends- — 
Proclaiming, in the absence of the King, 
Her royal presence — 

[Voice of Herald fails abruptly — utterly. — A breathless 
hush falls sudden on the court. — A sense oppressive 
— ominous — affects the throng. Weird music heard of 
unseen instruments.] 

600 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Herald [Huskily striving to be heard] 

Hist, ho! Ay, ay! Ay, ay! — Her Majesty, 
The All-Glorious and Ever-Gracious Queen, 
Crestillomeem — 

[The Queen gasps, and clutches at Herald, mutely signing 
him to silence, her staring eyes fixed on a shadowy 
figure, mistily developing before her into wraith-like 
form and likeness of the Tune-Fool, Spraivoll. The 
shape — evidently invisible and voiceless to all senses 
but the Queen's — wavers vaporishly to and fro be- 
fore her, moaning and crooning in infinitely sweet- 
sad minor cadences a mystic song.] 

Wraith- Song of Spraivoll 

/ will not hear the dying word 

Of any friend, nor stroke the wing 

Of any little wounded bird. 
, . . Love is the deadest thing! 

I wist not if I see the smile 

Of prince or wight, in court or lane. — 

/ only know that afterwhile 
He will not smile again. 

The summer blossom, at my feet, 
Swims backward, drozvning in the grass.— 

I will not stay to name it szveet — 
Sink out! and let me pass! 



60 r 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

/ have no mind to feel the touch 

Of gentle hands on brow and hair. — 

The lack of this once pained me much, 
And so I have a care. 

Dead weeds, and husky-rustling leaves 
That beat the dead boughs where ye cling, 

And old dead nests beneath the eaves-^- 
Love is the deadest thing! 

Ah! once I fared not all alone; 

And once — no matter, rain or snow! — 
I he stars of summer ever shone — 

Because I loved him so! 

With always tremblings in his hands, 

And always blushes unaware, 
And always ripples down the strands 

Of his long yellow hair. 

I needs must weep a little space, 

Remembering his laughing eyes 
And curving lip, and lifted face 

Of rapture and surprise. 

O joy is dead in every part, 
And life and hope ; and so I sing: 

In all the graveyard of my heart 
Love is the deadest thing! 

[With dying away of song, apparition of Spraivoll slowly 

vanishes. Crestillomeem turns dazedly to throng, 

and with labored effort strives to reassume imperious 

mien. — Signs for merl and tremulously drains goblet 

602 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

— sinks back in throne with feigned complacency, 
mutely waving Herald to proceed.] 

Herald [Mechanically'] 

Hist, ho! Ay, ay! Ay, ay! — Her Majesty, 

The All-Glorious and Ever-Gracious Queen, 

Crestillomeem, to her most loyal, leal 

And right devoted subjects, greeting sends — 

Proclaiming, in the absence of the King, 

Her royal presence, as by him empowered 

To sit and occupy, maintain and hold, 

And therefrom rule the Throne, in sovereign state, 

And work the royal will — [Confusion.] Hist, ho ! Ay, ay ! 

Ay, ay ! — And be it known, the King, in view 

Of his approaching dissolution — 

[Sensation among Counsellors, etc., within, and wild tumult 
without and cries "Long live the King!" and "Trea- 
son!" "Intrigue!" "Sorcery!" Crestillomeem, in 
suppressed ire, waving silence, and Herald striving 
to be heard.] 

Herald 

Hist, ho ! Ay, ay ! Ay, ay ! — The King, in view 
Of his approaching dissolution, hath 
Decreed this instrument — this royal scroll 

[Unrolling and displaying scroll.] 
With royal seal thereunto set by Krung's 
Most sacred act and sign — 

[General sensation Within, and Igfowitig tumult without, 
zvith wrangling cries of "/7<>//" "Treason !" "L'on- 
603 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

spiracy!" and "Down with the Queen !" "Down with 
the usurper!" "Down with the Sorceress!"] 

Crestillomeem [Wildly] 

Who dares to cry 
"Conspiracy !" Bring me the traitor-knave ! 

[Growing confusion without — sound of rioting. — Voice, 
"Let me be taken! Let me be taken!" Enter 
Guards, dragging Jucklet forward, wild-eyed and 
hysterical — the Queen's gaze fastened on him won- 
dering ly.] 

Crestillomeem [To Guards] 
Why bring ye Jucklet hither in this wise ? 

Guard 

O Queen, 'tis he who cries "Conspiracy!" 
And who incites the mob without with cries 
Of "Plot!" and "Treason!" 

Crestillomeem [Starting] 

Ha! Can this be true? 
I'll not believe it ! — Jucklet is my fool, 
But not so vast a fool that he would tempt 
His gracious Sovereign's ire. [To Guards.] Let him be 
freed ! 
[Then to Jucklet, with mock service.] 
Stand hither, O my Fool ! 

604 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
Jucklet [To Queen] 

What! I, thy fool? 
Ho! ho! Thy fool? — ho! ho! — Why, thou art mine! 

[Confusion — cries of "Strike down the traitor!" Jucklet 
wrenching himself from grasp of officers.] 

Back, all of ye! I have not waded hell 
That I should fear your puny enmity! 
Here will I give ye proof of all I say ! 

[Presses toward throne, wedging his opposers left and 
right — Crestillomeem sits as though stricken speech- 
less — pallid, waving him back — Jucklet, fairly front- 
ing her, with folded arms — then to throng continues.] 

Lo ! do I here defy her to lift up 

Her voice and say that Jucklet speaks a lie. 

[At sign of Queen, officers, unperceived by Jucklet, close 
warily behind him.] 

And, further — I pronounce the document 
That craven Herald there holds in his hand 
A forgery — a trick — and dare the Queen, 
Here in my listening presence, to command 
Its further utterance ! 

Crestillomeem [Wildly rising] 

Hold, hireling! — Fool ! — 
The Queen thou dost in thy mad boasts insult 
Shall utter first thy doom ! 

605 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

[Jucklet, seised from behind by Guards, is hurled face 
upward on the dais at her feet, zvhile a minion, with 
drawn sword pressed close against his breast, stands 
over him,] 

— Ere we proceed 
With graver matters, let this demon-knave 
Be sent back home to hell. 

[With awful stress of ire, form quivering, eyes glittering 
and features twitched and ashen.] 

Give me the sword, — 
The insult hath been mine — so even shall 
The vengeance be! 

[As Crestillomeem seises sword and bends forward to 
strike, Jucklet, with superhuman effort, frees his 
hand, and, with a sudden motion and an incoherent 
muttering, flings object in his assailant's face, — 
Crestillomeem staggers backward, dropping sword, 
and, with arms tossed aloft, shrieks, totters and 
falls prone upon the pave. In confusion following 
Jucklet mysteriously vanishes; and as the bewil- 
dered Courtiers lift the fallen Queen, a clear, pierc- 
ing voice of thrilling sweetness is heard singing.] 

Voice 

The pride of noon must wither soon — 

The dusk of death must fall; 
Yet out of darkest night the moon 

Shall blossom over all! 
606 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

[For an instant a dense cloud envelops empty throne — then 
gradually lifts, discovering therein Krung seated, in 
royal panoply and state, with Jucklet in act of pre- 
senting scepter to him. — Blare of trumpets, and cho- 
rus of Courtiers, Ministers, Heralds, etc.] 

Chorus 
All hail ! Long live the king ! 

Krung [To throng, with grave salutation] 

Through yEo's own great providence, and through 

The intervention of an angel whom 

I long had deemed forever lost to me, 

Once more your favored Sovereign, do I greet 

And tender ye my blessing, O most good 

And faith-abiding subjects of my realm! 

In common, too, with your long-suffering King, 

Have ye long suffered, blamelessly as he : 

Now, therefore, know ye all what, until late, 

He knew not of himself, and with him share 

The rapturous assurance that is his, — 

That, for all time to come, are we restored 

To the old glory and most regal pride 

And opulence and splendor of our realm. 

[Turning with pained features to the strangely stricken 
Queen. 1 

There have been, as ye needs must know, strange spoils 
And wicked sorceries at work within 
The very dais-boundaries of the Throne. 
607 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

Lo ! then, behold your harrier and mine, 
And with me grieve for the self-ruined Queen 
Who grovels at my feet, blind, speechless, and 
So stricken with a curse herself designed 
Should light upon Hope's fairest minister. 

[Motions attendants, who lead away Crestillomeem — the 
King gazing after her, overmastered with stress of 
his emotions. — He leans heavily on throne, as though 
oblivious to all surroundings, and, shaping into 
speech his varying thought, as in a trance, speaks as 
though witless of both utterance and auditor.] 

I loved her. — Why? I never knew. — Perhaps 
Because her face was fair; perhaps because 
Her eyes were blue and wore a weary air ; — 
Perhaps . . . perhaps because her limpid face 
Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein 
The dimples found no place to anchor and 
Abide: perhaps because her tresses beat 
A froth of gold about her throat, and poured 
In splendor to the feet that ever seemed 
Afloat. Perhaps because of that wild way 
Her sudden laughter overleapt propriety; 
Or — who will say? — perhaps the way she wept. 
Ho ! have ye seen the swollen heart of summer 
Tempest, o'er the plain, with throbs of thunder 
Burst apart and drench the earth with rain? She 
Wept like that.— And to recall, with one wild glance 
Of memory, our last love-parting — tears 
And all. ... It thrills and maddens me ! And yet 
My dreams will hold her, flushed from lifted brow 
608 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

To finger-tips, with passion's ripest kisses 

Crushed and mangled on her lips. . . . O woman! 

while 
Your face was fair, and heart was pure, and lips 
Were true, and hope as golden as your hair, 
I should have strangled you ! 

[As Krung, ceasing to speak, piteously lifts his face, 
Spraivoll all suddenly appears, in space left vacant 
by the Queen, and, kneeling, kisses the King's hand. 
— He bends in tenderness, kissing her brow — then 
lifts and seats her at his side. Speaks then to 
throng, ,] 

Good Subjects — Lords: 
Behold in this sweet woman here my child 
Whom, years agone, the cold, despicable 
Crestillomeem — by baleful, wicked arts 
And grewsome spells and fearsome witcheries — 
Did spirit off to some strange otherland, 
Where, happily, a Wunkland Princess found 
Her, and undid the spell by sorcery 
More potent — ay, Divine, since it works naught 
But good — the gift of ^Eo, to right wrong. 
This magic dower the Wunkland Princess hath 
Enlisted in our restoration here, 
In secret service, till this joyful hour 
Of our complete deliverance. Even thus. — 
Lo, let the peerless Princess now appear ! 

[He lifts scepter, and a gust of melody, divinely beautiful, 
sweeps through the court. — The star above the 
6$ 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 

throne loosens and drops slowly downward, bursting 
like a bubble on the scepter-tip, and, issuing there- 
from, Amphine and Dwainie, hand in hand, kneel 
at the feet of Krung, who bends above them with 
his blessing, while Jucklet capers wildly round the 
group.] 

Jucklet 

Ho! ho! but I could shriek for very joy! 
And though my recent rival, fair Amphine, 
Doth even now bend o'er a blossom, I, 
Besprit me ! have no lingering desire 
To meddle with it, though with but one eye 
I slept the while she backward walked around 
Me in the garden. 

[Amphine dubiously smiles— Jucklet blinks and leers — 
and Dwainie bites her finger.] 

Krung 

Peace! good Jucklet! Peace! 
For this is not a time for any jest. — 
Though the old order of our realm hath been 
Restored, and though restored my very life— 
Though I have found a daughter, — I have lost 
A son — for Dwainie, with her sorcery, 
Will, on the morrow, carry him away. 
Tis yEo's largess, as our love is His, 
And our abiding trust and gratefulness. 

Curtain 

610 



THE LOCKERBIE BOOK 
4.1 1 Close the Book 

/^^LOSE the book, and leave the tale 
^-^ All unfinished. It is best : 
Brighter fancy will not fail 
To relate the rest. 

We have read it on and on, 
Till each character, in sooth, 

By the master-touches drawn, 
Is a living truth. 

Leave it so, and let us sit, 
With the volume laid away — 

Cut no other leaf of it, 
But as Fancy may. — 

Then the friends that we have met 
In its pages will endure, 

And the villain, even yet, 
May be white and pure. 

Close the book, and leave the tale 
All unfinished. It is best : 

Brighter fancy will not fail 
To relate the rest. 



6ll 



•: ■ 



INDEXES 

INDEX OF TITLES 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



INDEX OF TITLES 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

After Death 5H 

4 Afterwhiles 26 

All-Golden, The 114 

All-Kind Mother, The 461 

America 398 

Anselmo -53 

Art and Love 50 

As Created 298 

At Broad Ripple .92 

At Crown Hill ....... Z l 7 

At His Wintry Tent 3 22 

At Noon — And Midnight . . . .88 

At Sea .338 

At Utter Loaf 217 

August 201 

Autumn T 92 

Autumnal Tonic, An 4*4 

vAway 3 



Baby's Dying . 












108 


Babyhood 












69 


Ban, The 












324 


Bat, The 












90 


Beautiful City, The 












41 


Becalmed 












42 


Bed, The 












S3* 


Bedouin 












H)5 


Being His Mother . 












rf* 


Bells Jangled 












. 63 


Bereaved . 












. 440 


Billy Could Ride 












!.V 



617 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Blind 

Blind Girl, The 

Blossoms On the Trees, The 

Book of Joyous Children, The 

Boy-Friend, The 

Boy Patriot, The 

Boys, The 

Bride, A . 

Brook-Song, The 

Busch and Tommy 

By Her White Bed 

Child's Christmas Carol 

Child's Home — Long Ago, A 

Children of the Childless, The 

Christ, The 

Circus- Day Parade, The 

Close the Book 

Country Editor, The 

Country Pathway, A 

Curly Locks 

Curse of the Wandering Foot, The 

Cyclone, The . 

Dan Paine 

Das Krist Kindel . 

Dave Field 

Days Gone By, The 

Dead Lover, The .. 

Dead, My Lords 

Dead Selves 

Dead Wife, The 

Dear Hands 

618 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

Dearth . . .40 

Death • . . . . . . . . . 496 

Discouraging Model, A 2 

Ditty of No Tone, A . . . . . 226 

Doctor, The . . . . . . . . 424 

Dolores 498 

Donn Piatt of Mac-o-chee 204 

"Dream" . . . . . . . 518 

Dream of Autumn, A 227 

Dream of the Little Princess, The . . . 143 

Dreamer, Say 285 

Drum, The . . 84 

Dusk .' . . . .' . . . .14 

Dusk-Song — The Beetle . . . . .132 

Edgar Wilson Nye . . . . . 378 

Edge of the Wind, The ...... 325 

Elizabeth ........ 231 

Emerson ........ 294 

Empty Glove, An 286 

Empty Nest, An . 409 

Enduring, The 318 

Envoy 158 

Envoy 246 

Envoy 290 

Envoy 388 

Ere I Went Mad 501 

Eternity 496 

Eugene Field 336 

EVEN As a Child ....... 414 

Evensong ........ 477 

Exceeding All 121 

619 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

Fame . . . . . . . 44 

Flying Islands of the Night, The . . .533 

For You . . 488 

Frog, The . . . . ... . 275 

From a Balloon 444 

From Delphi to Camden . . . . 302 

From the Headboard of a Grave in Paraguay . 43 

Fruit- Piece, A 56 

Funny Little Fellow, The .... . 96 

General Lew Wallace . 400 

Give Me the Baby . . . . . . . 465 

Glimpse of Pan, A 219 

* "Go Read Your Book!" . 384 

Go Winter! 203 

God Bless Us Every One 481 

Good-Bye, A . 265 

Good Man, A . . . . . . . . 431 

Grant . .28 

Great God Pan, The 390 

Harper, The 54 

Has She Forgotten ? . . . . . 86 

He and I . . 281 

He Called Her In no 

He Cometh In Sweet Sense . . . . .35* 

Henry W. Grady 301 

Henry Irving ■ . . " . . . . . 412 

Her Beautiful Eyes ...... 19° 

Her Beautiful Hands . . . . . . 339 

Her Face and Brow . . f . . . 5 2 5 

Her Hair 36 

Hereafter, The 179 

620 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

Herr Weiser 5 

His Christmas Sled 130 

His Heart of Constant Youth .... 391 

His Last Picture 408 

His Room 354 

His Vigil .185 

Home At Night . 190 

Home- Voyage, The 331 

Honey Dripping From the Comb . . . .135 

Hoosier Folk-Child, The . . . . . 240 

Hoosier In Exile, The 402 

Humble Singer, A ...... . 401 

Hunter Boy, The 153 

Hymn Exultant 295 

-I Smoke My Pipe 378 

If I Knew What Poets Know .... 57 

Ike Walton's Prayer 34 

Illileo . . . 32 

In A Box . . . . . . .70 

In Bohemia 78 

In State 352 

In Swimming-Time ....... 455 

In the Dark 91 

In the Evening 337 

In the South ........ 76 

Indiana ......... 44 

Iron Horse, The 181 

Jack-In-the-Box 95 

John Brown ........ 105 

John McKeen 216 

Judith 164 

621 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

June . . . . . . . . . . ... 18 

June At Woodruff . ... . ... 244 

Just To Be Good . . . . . . . .191 

^ Kathleen Mavourneen . . . . . . 358 

King, The 50 

«* Kissing the Rod . . . . . . . 60 

Kneeling With Herrick . . . . .68 

Land of Used-to-be, The .... . 106 
Last Night — And This . . . . . .38 

Laughing Song . 430 

Laughter ......... 489 

Laughter Holding Both His Sides . , . . 36 

Leave-Taking, A 67 

Legend Glorified, The . . . . . ■ ■.. . 61 

L'Envoy . . . 532 

Leonainie . . . . . . . ... 288 

Let Something Good Be Said . . . . 292 

Let Us Forget 196 

Life At the Lake . . . . . . 428 

Life-Lesson, A 4 

Light of Love, The . . . . . . 499 

Lincoln . . . 291 

Lincoln — The Boy 434 

Little David . . . . . . . . 262 

Little Girl y- Girl . . . . . . . 147 

Little Lady, The . ... . . . 466 

"Little Man In the Tin-Shop, The ,> . . . 457 

Little Marjorie . 459 

Little Red-Apple Tree, The . . . . .116 

Little Red Ribbon, The ...... 247 

Little White Hearse, The . . . ... 519 

622 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

Q Little Woman, The . . . . . 396 

Lockerbie Fair 382 

Lockerbie Street ....... i 

Longfellow 206 

Longfellow 403 

Longfellow's Love For the Children . . .116 

Lost Kiss, The 39 

* Lost Love, A . . 356 

Lost Path, The . . . . -77 

Lounger, A . . 516 

Loveliness, The . ... . . . 406 

Lovely Child, The 265 

Loving Cup, The 314 

Lullaby 71 

Mabel . . . . . . . . , 107 

Masque of the Seasons, A 470 

McFeeters' Fourth 118 

Monument for the Soldiers, A . . . 210 

Moon-Drowned 87 

Morning 390 

Mother Goose 114 

Mother Sainted, The . . . . . . 319 

Mother-Song, A 150 

Mute Singer, The 346 

* My Bachelor Chum 376 

My Bride That Is To Be 277 

My Foe 433 

My Friend . . . . . . . [ '2t$ 

* Name of Old Glory, The joo 

Naturalist, The 303 

Ness m uk 240 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

No Boy Knows 468 

Noblest Service, The ...... 323 

Nonsense Rhyme, A . . . . .141 

Noon Interval, A 353 

North and South 170 

"O Life! O Beyond!" 293 

Old Chums . 450 

Old Days, The 433 

Old Friend, An . . . . . . 377 

Old Guitar, The 320 

Old Hec's Idolatry 361 

Old Man of the Sea, The 342 

Old, Old Wish, The 149 

Old Retired Sea- Captain, The . . . . . 200 

Old School-Chum, The 257 

Old School-Day Romances 347 

Old Sweetheart of Mine, An . . . . . 64 

Old-Timer, An . . . . . . . 255 

Old Trundle-Bed, The 262 

Old Year and the New, The . . . . . . 168 

On A Fly-Leaf f 305 

On A Youthful Portrait of Stevenson . . . 313 
On Reading Dr. Henry. Van Dyke's Volume of 

Poems — Music ... . . . . 410 

On the Sunny Side 128 

One Afternoon . . 448 

One With A Song . 304 

Onward Trail, The 315 

Orchard Lands of Long Ago, The . . . .155 

Order For A Song, An 359 

Orlie Wilde . . 266 

624 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Oscar C. McCulloch 

Our Boyhood Haunts 

Our Kind of A Man 

Our Little Girl 

Our Own 

Ours 

Out of Nazareth 

"Out of Reach" 

Out of the Dark and the Dearth 

Out of the Hitherwhere 

Out to Old Aunt Mary's 

Out- Worn Sappho, An 

Pan 

Pansies '. 
" Parting Guest, A 
Passing Hail, A 
Passing of A Heart, The 
Paths of Peace, The 
Peace-Hymn of the Republic, 
Pixy People, The 
Plaint Human, The 
Poet of the Future, The 
Poor Man's Wealth, A . 
Prayer Perfect, The 

Quarrel, The . 
Quest, The 

QuiCST OF THE FATHERS, THE 

Quiet Lodger, The . 

Rain, The 

Rainy MORNING, The 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Reach Your Hand to Me 

Red Riding-Hood 

Rest, The 

Rider of the Knee, The . 

Ripest Peach, The . 

Rival, The 

Robert Burns Wilson 

Romaunt of King Mordameer, 

Rose, The 

Rose- Lady, The 

Say Something to Me 
Scrawl, A 
Sea-Song From the Shore, A 
September Dark 
Serenade, The 
Sermon of the Rose, The 
Shower, The . 
Silence 

Silent Singer, The 
Silent Victors, The 
Singer, The 
Sis Rapalye 
Sleep 
Sleep 

Sleeping Beauty, A 

Slumber-Song . 

Soldier, The 

Some Imitations 

Pomona 

The Passing of a Zephyr 

«4> A Rhyme for Christmas 

626 



The. 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Some Songs After Master- Singers 

Song .... 

To the Child Julia 

The Dolly's Mother . 

Wind of the Sea . 

Born to the Purple 

Subtlety 
Someday . 
Song, A 

Song — For November 
Song I Never Sing, The , 
Song of Long Ago, A 
Song of Parting 
Song of Singing, A . 
Song of the Cruise, A 
Song of the Road, A 
Song of Yesterday, The . 
Songs of a Life-Time 
Songs Tuneless 
South Wind and the Sun, Th 
Southern Singer, A 
Speeding of the King's Spite, The 
Sphinx, The 

Spring Song and a Later, A 
Sudden Shower, A . 
Suspense .... 



Thanksgiving . 

Th kir Sweet Sorrow 

There Was a Cherry-Trek 

"This Dear CHILD IIi:artii» Woman That Ts Heap" 

Thkkk Dead Friends* %.*... 

627 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Three Several Birds 

The Romancer , 

The Poet 

Bookman's Catch 
Three Singing Friends . . 

Lee O. Harris 

Benj. S. Parker . 

James Newton Matthews 
Through Sleepy-Land 
Time .... 

Time of Clearer Twitterings 
Tinkle of Bells, A 
To a Jilted Swain . 
To a Skull 

To An Importunate Ghost 
To Benj. S. Parker 
To Bliss Carman 
To Edgar Wilson Nye 
To Edmund Clarence Stedman 
To Hear Her Sing . 
To My Good Master 
**To Robert Louis Stevenson 
To Santa Claus 
To the Judge . 
To the Serenader 
To the Wine-God Merlus 

Toil 

Tom Van Arden 

Tommy Smith 

Treasure of the Wise Man, The 

Tribute of His Home, The 

Twintorette, A. , , 

628 






INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

Uncle Sidney's Views 98 

Unheard, The 33& 

Uninterpreted . . . . . . 109 

Unless . . 387 

Used-To-Be, The . . . . . . . 437 

■ 

Variation, A 509 

Vision of Summer, A 440 

Voice From the Farm, A 52 

Voice of Peace, The 420 

Voices, The . . 263 



Wait for the Morning 62 

Wandering Jew, The 232 

Watches of the Night, The . . . . .211 
Water-Color, A . . . . ' . . .168 

Way the Baby Came, The 119 

Way the Baby Slept, The 117 

Way the Baby Woke, The 145 

*VWe Are Not Always Glad When We Smile . 507 

We Must Believe 412 

We Must Get Home 416 

We to Sigh Instead of Sing 214 

Werewife, The 487 

What a Dead Man Said 450 

What Redress 256 

What the Wind Said 308 

What Title? 421 

When Age Comes On 197 

When Bessie Died ...... 47 

When Early March Seems Middle May . . 122 

When I Do Mock 273 

629 



INDEX OF TITLES 

PAGE 

When June Is Here . . . . . . n 

When My Dreams Come True . . . . 89 

^When She Comes Home . . . . . . 482 

Where-Away . 166 

Where Shall We Land? . . . . .81 

Where the Children Used to Play ... 58 

While the Heart Beats Young .... 500 
While the Musician Played . . . .180 

Whitheraways, The . . . . . .154 

Whittier— At Newburyport 335 

Who Bides His Time . . . . . . 53 

Wife-Blessed, The . . . . . 223 

Willow, The 516 

Windy Day, A . . .... . 289 

Winter Fancies . . . . . .101 

Witch of Erkmurden, The * . . ' . . 490 
With the Current . . . . . . 151 

Worn-Out Pencil, A . . . . .80 

Wraith of Summer-time, A . . . . . 237 

Yellowbird, The . . . . . . . 282 

Ylladmar . .*.•.•. . . . 383 

You May Not Remember . . . . 435 

Young Old Man, The . . . . . .381 

Your Height Is Ours . . . . . . 292 

Your Violin . . . . . . . 463 



630 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



X3CT4I 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

A day of torpor in the sullen heat .... 201 

A deep, delicious hush in earth and sky .. . . 353 

A face of youth mature; a mouth of tender . . 313 

A goddess,, with a siren's grace .... 266 

A good man never dies . . . . . .431 

A.King — estranged from his loving Queen . . 502 

A little maid, of summers four 473 

A misty morning — faint, and far away . . . 318 

A modest singer, with meek soul and heart . . 401 

A monument for the Soldiers! 210 

A peaceful life ; — just toil. and rest .... 291 

A poor man ? Yes, I must confess .... 248 

A song of Long Ago 222 

A thoughtful brow and face — of sallow hue . J 407 

A troth, and a grief, and a blessing . . . 43 

A woman's figure, on a ground of night . . . 215 

Ah, help me ! but her face and brow . . . 525 

Ah, luxury! Beyond the heat .92 

could tell . 514 

. 406 

. 236 

. 81 

• 328 

together . yy 

. 464 

. y:> 

. [20 



Ah ! this delights me more than words 

Ah, what a long and loitering way 

All hope of rest, withdrawn me ! 

All listlessly we float 

All sudden she hath ceased to sing 

Alone they walked — their fingers knit 

Always I see her in a saintly guise 

Always suddenly they are gone 

An afternoon as ripe with heal 

An alien wind that blew and blew 

An empty glove — long withering in the grasp • • 2$) 

An old sweetheart of mine! — Is this her presence here 

with me ........ 64 

And this is the way the baby woke . . . i.|5 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Andwhere's the Land of Used-to-be, does little baby- 
wonder? • . . . . . . . 106 

And yet she does not stir .... . 319 

As a harvester, at dusk . . ". . . . 192 

As one in sorrow looks upon . . . . . 168 

As the little white hearse went glimmering by .519 

As when in dreams we sometimes hear . . . 260 

Awake, he loved their voices . . g! jJP2 r j| . 116 
Ay, thou varlet ! Laugh away ! . . . .36 

1 

Baby's dying . . . . J .... 108 

Bard of our Western world! — its prairies wide . 259 

Barefooted boys scud up the street .... 123 

Be our fortunes as they may . . . . , 388 

Bear with us, O Great Captain, if our pride . . 331 

Because her eyes were far too deep . . . . 518 

Being his mother, — when he goes away . . . 167 

Below, cool grasses : over us 448 

Beyond the purple, hazy trees torn . . . 437 

Billy was born for a horse's back ! . . . 133 

Blossoms crimson, white or blue . . . . 189 

Bound and bordered in leaf-green . . . . 479 

Bowed, midst a universal grief that makes . . 386 

Breath of morning— breath of May . . . 390 

But yesterday . . . . . . . . 124 

By her white bed I muse a little space . . . 224 

5U S - ••■«■«• ,m , s 

Christ used to be like you and me . . . . 360 

Clarence, my boy-friend, hale and strong! . . 148 

Close the book and dim the light .... 185 

Close the book, and leave the tale . . . .611 

Clouds above, as white as wool .... 455 

Curly Locks! Curly Locks! wilt thou be mine? . 138 

634 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Dead, my lords and gentlemen ! 

Dear Lord ! kind Lord ! 

Dear Lord, to Thee my knee is bent 

Dear Mother Goose ! most motherly and dear 

Deep, tender, firm and true, the Nation's heart 

Dimple-cheeked and rosy-lipped . . 

Donn Piatt — of Mac-o-chee . 

Down in the night I hear them . 

Dreamer, say, will you dream for me 



PAGE 

439 

IOI 

68 
114 

250 

494 
204 
263 

285 



Elizabeth! Elizabeth! . . 

Ere I went mad . . ... 

Even as a child to whom sad neighbors speak 
Even as the gas-flames flicker to and fro 



Far in the night, and yet no rest for him ! 

next his own . . . 

"Father !" (so the Word) He cried 
For the Song's sake; even so 
For you, I could forget the gay 
Friend of my earliest youth 
From Delphi to Camden — little Hoosier towns 

Get gone, thou most uncomfortable ghost ! 
Get thee back neglected friends . 

Give me the baby to hold, my dear 
Go, Winter ! Go thy ways ! We want again 
"God bless us every one !" prayed Tiny Tim 
"Good-bye, my friend !" . 



The pillow 



Ha ! my dear ! I'm back again 
Hail! Ho! .... 

Hail to thee, with all good cheer I 

635 



231 
501 
414 
103 



330 
533 
488 
300 
302 

243 
274 
465 
203 
481 
265 



. 453 

i 335 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Has she forgotten? On this very May ... 86 

He called her in from me and shut the door . . no 

He cometh in sweet sense to thee . . . . 351 
He faced his canvas as a seer whose ken . .50 

He had toiled away for a weary while . . . 344 

"He is my friend/' I said . . . . . 213 

He is the morning's poet . . . . . 524 

He kisses me ! Ah, now, at last . . . . 492 
He leaned against a lamp-post, lost ". . .516 

He puts the poem by, to say 257 

He rests at last, as on the mother-breast . . 423 

He shall sleep unscathed of thieves . . . 238 

He sings : and his song is heard . . . . 304 

He would have holiday — outworn, in sooth . . 357 

Hear what a dead man said to me .... 450 

Heigh-ho ! Babyhood ! Tell me where you linger ! . 69 

Heigh-o ! our jolly tilts at New World song! . . 361 

Her hair was, oh, so dense a blur . . . 383 

Her heart knew, naught of sorrow . . . . 429 

Here where of old was heard . . . . 426 

Here where the wayward stream .... 255 

Hereafter ! O we need not waste . . . 179 

Herein are blown from out the South . . . 220 

Herr Weiser ! — Threescore-years-and-ten . . 5 
Hey ! • my little Yellowbird . . . . .282 

Hey, Old Midsummer! are you here again . . 377 

Hi and whoop-hooray, boys ! . . . . . 128 

Ho! but the darkness was densely black! . . 488 

Ho ! did ye hear of Mordameer .... 482 

Ho! ho! thou jolly god, with kinked lips . . . 515 

Ho ! I'm going back to where . . . . 326 

Ho ! my little maiden . . . . . . 497 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Ho ! we are loose. Hear how they shout 

How many, of my selves are dead? 

How many times that grim old phrase 

How slight, a thing may set one's fancy drifting 

How tired I am! I sink down all alone 

Hunter Boy of Hazelwood .... 

I am looking for Love. Has he passed this way 

I am tired of this ! . . . 

I cannot say, and I will not say 

I can't extend to every friend 

I caught but a glimpse of him. Summer was here 

I come upon it suddenly, alone 

I crave, dear Lord . . . . 

"I deem that God is not disquieted" 

I dream that you are kisses Allah sent 

I find an old deserted nest .... 

I had fed the fire and stirred it, till the sparkles 

delight 

I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone 

I hold that the true age of wisdom is when 

I hold your trembling hand to-night — and yet . 

I know all about the Sphinx 

I lie low-coiled in a nest of dreams 

I muse to-day, in a listless way 

I pray you, do not use this thing 

I put by the half -written poem 

I saw them last night in a box at the play 

I so loved once, when Death came by I hid 

I watch him, with his Christmas sled 

I want to be a Soldier ! ... 

I want to sing something — but this is all 

If all his mourning friends unselfishly 

<\S7 



PAGE 

444 
445 
384 
135 
5ii 
153 

517 
509 
3 
378 
219 
160 

34 

61 

411 

409 

in 

14 
240 

98 
40 
31 
63 

308 

256 

39 

70 

joq 

130 
467 

1 1 

303 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

If Browning only were here . . . . . 529 

"If I die first," my old chum paused to say . . 450 

If I knew what poets know . . . . . 57 

If I might see his face to-day ! . . . 283 

Illileo, the moonlight seemed lost across the vales . 32 

I'm home again, my dear old Room . . . 354 

I'm The Old Man of the Sea — I am! . . . 342 

In childish days! O memory . ■ . . . .95 

In fancy, always, at thy desk, thrown wide . . 72 

In gentlest worship has he bowed . . . 303 

In its color, shade and shine .... 237 

In the evening of our days . . . . . 337 

In the need that bows us thus . . . . 398 

In youth he wrought, with eyes ablur . . . 223 

Is it the martins or katydids? . . . .352 

It is a various tribute you command . . . 422 

It is my dream to have you here with me . . 52 

It tossed its head at the wooing breeze . . 230 

It was just a very . . . . . . . ' 98 

It was needless to say 'twas a glorious day . . 118 

John McKeen, in his rusty dress . . . . 216 

Just as of old! The world rolls on and on . . 246 

Just as of old,— with fearless foot . . . . 315 

Just drifting on together ..... 281 

Just the airiest, f airiest slip of a thing . . .2 

Just to be good . . . . ... 191 

Kathleen Mavourneen! The song is still ringing . 358 

Knightly Rider of the Knee . . . «mid . I3 i 

Last night — how deep the darkness was! . . 38 

Last night, in some lost mood of meditation . . 149 

638 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Lay away the story 

Leave him here in the fresh greening grasses and 
trees . . . . . . 

Let me come in where you sit weeping, — ay 

Let me write you a rune of a rhyme, Dave Field 

Let us be thankful — not only because 

Let us forget. What matters it that we 

Let us rest ourselves a bit! . * 

Leonainie — Angels named her 

Like a drift of faded blossoms 

Lilies are both pure and fair 

Lithe-armed, and with satin-soft shoulders 

Little brook! Little brook! 

Little Busch and Tommy Hays 

Little Girly-Girl, of you . 

Little Julia, since that we 

Lo, I am dying ! And to feel the King 

Lo, whatever is at hand 

Long life's a lovely thing to know 

Make me a song of all good things 

Mamma is a widow : There's only us three 

Many pleasures of Youth have been buoyantly sung 

Mellow hazes, lowly trailing 

Most like it was this kingly lad 

Most tangible of all the gods that be 

Mother, O Mother! forever I cry for you 

Music! — Yea, and the airs you play 

My foe? You name yourself, then, — I refuse 

My little woman, of you I sing 

Nay, Death, thou mightiest of all 
Neglected now is the old guitar 

639 



PAGE 

477 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



No song is mine of Arab steed 
Not only master of his art was he 
Now hidden in among the forest-trees 

O a corpulent man is my bachelor chum 

O gentlest kinsman of Humanity 

O heart of mine, we shouldn't 

O her beautiful eyes ! they are as blue as the dew 

O her eyes are amber-fine 

"O I am weary !" she sighed, as her billowy 

O I will walk with you, my lad, whichever way you 

fare 

O in the depths of midnight 

O it was but a dream I had 

O love is like an untamed steed! 

O Pan is the goodliest god, I wist 

O princely poet ! — kingly heir . 

O queenly month of indolent repose! 

O simple as the rhymes that tell 

O soul of mine, look out and see 

O the days gone by! O the days gone by 

O the drum! . . . . , 

O the Lands of Where-Away! 

O the Little Lady's dainty 

O the Lockerbie Fair ! — Have you heard of its fame 

the night was dark and the night was late 

O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy 

O the poet of the Future! He will come to us as 

comes 

O the South Wind and the Sun! 
O the t sun and the rain, and the rain and the sun! 
O the m waiting in, the watches of the night! f 

640 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



O this is the way the baby came 

O touch me with your hands 

O what a weary while it is to stand . 

O "William," — in thy blythe companionship 

O your hands — they are strangely fair! 

Of the North I wove a dream 

Of the wealth of facts and fancies 

Oh! the Circus-Day Parade! How the bugles played 

and played ! . . 

Oh, the golden afternoon ! 
Old friend of mine, whose chiming name 
Old Glory! say, who .... 

Once, in a dream, I saw a man 
One in the musical throng 
Orphaned, I cry to thee .... 
Our Land — our Home! — the common home indeed 
Out at Woodruff Place — afar 
Out of the hitherwhere into the Yon 

Pansies ! Pansies ! How I love you, pansies ! 

"Rain and rain ! and rain and rain !" 
Rarest mood of all the year! 
Reach your hand to me, my friend 
Ringlety-jing! ..... 

Robert Louis Stevenson! 

Say farewell, and let me go 
Say something to me ! I've waited so long 
Schoolmaster and Songmaster ! Memory 
Season of snows, and season of llowers 
She came to mc in a dazzling guise 
She sang a song of May for me 

641 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



She will not smile 

Sing! gangling lad, along the brink 
Sing us something full of laughter 
Singers there are of courtly themes 
Sleep, little one! The Twilight folds her gloom 

Snow is in the air 

So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn 

Someday : — So many tearful eyes 

Songs of a Life-Time — with the Singer's head 

Strange dreams of what I used to be 

Strange — strange, O mortal Life 

Such a dear little street it is, nestled away 

Summer or Winter or Spring or Fall 

Supinely we lie in the grove's shady greenery 

Sweet little face, so full of slumber now 

Sweet little myth of the nursery story 



The afternoon of summer folds 
The air falls chill . . 
The Beautiful City! Forever 
The beauty of her hair bewilders me 
The bobolink he sings a single song 
The Bookman he's a humming-bird 
The Children of the Childless !— Yours — and mine 
The clouds have deepened o'er the night . 
The dawn of the day was dreary 
The dawn was a dawn of splendor . 
The frightened herds of clouds across the sky 
The green below and the blue above ! . 
The Hoosier Folk-Child — all unsung 
The Hoosier in exile — a toast .... 
The kind of a man fox you and me! 

642 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



The landscape, like the awed face of a child 
The light of the moon on the white of the snow 
The Little-red-apple Tree! 
The little red ribbon, the ring and the rose ! 
The man that rooms next door to me 
The maple strews the embers of its leaves 
The midnight is not more bewildering 
The morning sun seemed fair as though 
The mother of the little boy that sleeps 
The old days — the far days . 
The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine 
The old sea-captain has sailed the seas 
The orchard lands of Long Ago ! 
The rain ! the rain ! the rain ! . 
The ripest peach is highest on the tree 
The Romancer's a nightingale 
The saddest silence falls when Laughter lays 
The shrilling locust slowly sheathes 
The skies have grown troubled and dreary 
The Soldier ! — meek the title, yet divine 
The stars are failing, and the sky 
The ticking — ticking — ticking of the clock ! 
The touches of her hands are like the fall 
The Whitheraways ! — That's what I'll have to call 
The winds have talked with him confidingly 
There are many things that boys may know 
There is a princess in the South 
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear 
There ! little girl ; don't cry ! 
There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows 
There's a space for good to bloom in 
There's a Voice across the Nation like a mighty ocean 
hail 

643 



316 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



They faced each other : Topaz-brown 
They meet to say farewell: Their way 
They rode right out of the morning sun 
They walk here with us, hand-in-hand 
This is the way the baby slept 
This Pan is but an idle god, I guess 
This woman, with the dear child-heart 
Thou dread, uncanny thing . 
Thou drowsy god, whose blurred eyes, half awink 
Thou, of all God's gifts the best 
Though now forever still 
Thousands of thousands of hushed years ago 
Through every happy line I sing 
Thy rapt song makes of Earth a realm of light 
Time is so long when a man is dead ! 
Time of crisp and tawny leaves 
Tinkle on, O sweet guitar 

'Tis Art reclaims him ! By those gifts of hers 
To hear her sing— to hear her sing 
Tom Van Arden, my old friend 
Tranced in the glamour of a dream 
True-hearted friend of all true friendliness ! 
Turn through his life, each word and deed 
Turn your face this way .... 
'Twas a curious dream, good sooth! 
'Twas a Funny Little Fellow 
'Twas a marvelous vision of Summer 
'Twas a summer ago when he left me here 
'Twas the height of the fete when we quitted the 
riot . . . . . 



87 



Up from, and out of, and over the opulent woods and 
the plains 

644 



528 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Voice of Mankind, sing over land and sea . . 295 

Wait for the morning: — It will come, indeed 

Wasn't it pleasant, O brother mine 

We are not always glad when we smile 

We may idealize the chief of men . . 

We must believe 

We must get home ! How could we stray like this ? 

Welladay! .. 

What delightful hosts are they 

What intuition named thee? — Through what thrill 

What mystery is it? The morning as rare . 

What shall we say? In quietude 

What shall we say of the soldier, Grant 

What title best befits the man .... 

What were our Forefathers trying to find 

What would best please our friend, in token of 

When Age comes on! . . . 

When Bessie died 

When but a little boy, it seemed 

When chirping crickets fainter cry 

When country roads begin to thaw 

When I do mock the blackness of the night 

When I was a little boy, long ago 

When June is here — what art have we to sing . 

When my dreams come true — when my dreams come 
true ........ 

When over the fair fame of friend or foe 

When rainy-greener shoots the grass 

When she comes home again! A thousand ways 

Where are they — the Afterwhilcs 

Where are they? — the friends of my childhood en- 
chanted 105 

645 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Where do you go when you go to sleep 

"Where is little Marjorie?" .... 

While skies glint bright with bluest light 

While the heart beats young! — O the splendor of the 

Spring 

While with Ambition's hectic flame 

Whilst little Paul, convalescing was staying 

Who am I but the Frog — the Frog! 

Who bides his time, and day by day 

Who cantereth forth in the night so late . 

Who has not wanted does not guess 

Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow 

Wilful we are, in our infirmity . . 

Wind of the Sea, come fill my sail 

Winter without 

With a hey ! and a hi ! and a hey-ho rhyme ! 
With gentlest tears, no less than jubilee 
Within the cosiest corner of my dreams 
Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise 
Would that the winds might only blow 
Writ in between the lines of his life-deed 

Ye stars in ye skies seem twinkling 

Yea, we go down to sea in ships 

Years did I vainly seek the good Lord's grace 

You may not remember whether 

You sang the song of rare delight 

You think it is a sorry thing 

You think them "out of reach," your dead? 

Your violin! Ah me! • . . . . 



646 



OCT 4 1911 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



OCT 4 , „ , 



